The Last Horseman

by David Gilman

  He squatted beneath the meagre shade of a kopje’s outcrop and pulled Pierce’s Comanche knife from inside his boot to cut a leathery strip of biltong even though he knew the salty dried beef would soon make him crave more water. As he chewed he looked across the featureless landscape broken only by shadows cast by the outcrops. Beyond the farthest undulating plains, he saw a pancake layer of smoke unable to rise higher than the heat-baked hills. Soldiers or farmstead? It didn’t matter; he would have food and water for himself and his horse. With renewed hope he urged the old horse on.

  It took him longer than he anticipated: the distances of this vast country were deceptive and the harsh light and shimmering heat distorted perceptions. By the time he reached the elbow of outcrop that sheltered a stone-built one-room farmstead it was well after noon. Dried cowpats were being stacked against the wall by a girl who looked to be a couple of years younger than himself. Edward couldn’t determine the age of the older woman whose frayed dress was covered by an equally stained apron and whose face was blinkered by a bonnet. There was no doubt that she was the mother of the half-dozen children, all of them, he guessed, under the age of twelve, except for one older girl. The woman and children looked dishevelled. Dirt streaked their hands and faces and it was obvious they had little in the way of food. Two scrawny cows stood in makeshift pens. Flies buzzed and the unmoving air was heavy and silent. The family said nothing as they went about their chores. A windmill stood over a borehole, its metal-winged blades unmoving, as one of the children carried a bucket of water from the shallow trough at its base. Edward could almost taste the water. He dry-swallowed and curbed the urge to rush forward and dunk his head into the clay-walled pool. His horse smelled the fresh water and whinnied, causing the family to turn, startled at his presence. Within a moment the woman had reached for a shotgun and levelled it at him as the children scurried behind her for safety.

  Edward raised his hand, but his horse was skittish, wanting to drink, so he brought it back under control with one hand on the reins, keeping the other in a gesture of submission.

  ‘Engels?’ the woman said, never once letting her eyes stray from him.

  He was uncertain if the word meant what he thought. ‘I don’t speak your language... I don’t mean any harm. I need water.’

  His words appeared to mean nothing to the woman. She signalled him away with quick jerk of the barrels and spoke the few words in a fractured, guttural accent. ‘Go. Get away. Voetsek, Engelsman.’ She almost spat the words at him.

  He had seen railwaymen in the Cape throw stones at stray dogs on the track, and heard them curse the pejorative warning. Voetsek was for feral dogs – and Englishmen.

  Edward couldn’t take his eyes off the young girl’s sun-burnished face. Like many a farm girl her hair, bleached by the sun, was tied back. It wasn’t only her blue eyes that captivated him; the shape of her breasts pushed against the cotton dress and the two top buttons were tantalizingly open. Milk-pale skin beneath the sunburned face. A body that had never been exposed to the harsh light. Had probably never been seen naked by any man. The girl allowed him a brief smile, but then turned away in embarrassment. Perhaps, he realized, his thoughts were all too apparent.

  The woman took a sharp pace forward and raised the barrels directly at his face.

  ‘English. No. No, not English. Nee Engels,’ he said, hoping to placate her. ‘Ireland. I live in Ireland. Dublin. The Irish? You’ve heard of the Irish?’

  The woman looked doubtful.

  ‘You have food?’ Edward asked, putting his fingers between his lips. ‘You have any food? Any meat?’

  ‘Nothing! Go!’ The woman said.

  Edward felt desperation begin to take hold. ‘Look... please...’ His mind raced, searching for the word. ‘Asseblief. Please. Just some water... for my horse...’

  Once again the girl muttered something to her mother; the woman shook her head again and kept the barrels level on Edward’s chest.

  With more willpower than he knew he possessed, he turned the horse away from the water. ‘All right... listen... I will get you food,’ he said, patting the rifle butt in its sleeve on the saddle strap. ‘There’s buck’ – he pointed – ‘in the hills. I’ll get you food.’

  The woman made no answer but gave him a long, assessing look, then instructed the boy to place the water bucket in front of the horse. The child ran back to the protection of his mother’s skirts as the horse buried its muzzle into the bucket and slurped noisily. Edward was still covered by the shotgun. His lips were parched. Once the horse had drained the bucket, he turned it away.

  The woman called after him: ‘Irish.’

  He turned to look at her.

  ‘You bring us food, I give you water, ja?’

  He nodded and spurred the horse away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Once he was beyond the second ridge of hills, Edward weighted the horse’s rein with a rock and scrambled further on foot. He tracked the buck, creeping forward in the shadows cast by the boulders as the sun moved further to the west. The buck was part of a small grazing herd, no more than half a dozen animals, but it limped and could not keep up as the others in the herd searched out every morsel that managed to grow in the harsh landscape. Edward wiped the sweat from his eyes and raised the heavy weapon to his shoulder. He had fired shotguns before when his father had taken him and Benjamin Pierce on a shoot with Lawrence Baxter and his father. But now his left arm trembled under the weight of the wooden stock and when he squeezed the trigger the recoil forced the barrel up. The steel-plated butt kicked into his shoulder as the .45 bullet smashed into the rock face seventy-five yards away. He had missed. The herd bounded away, but the injured buck still lagged behind and now stood nervously on the spot, tail twitching, head raised and eyes wide, staring towards the shadow that concealed Edward.

  He kept his eyes on the wary animal, forced down the lever to open the breech and fingered in another stubby round. This time he wedged the rifle and his arm against the rock and waited until his impatient breath slowed. As he exhaled, he squeezed the trigger gently and this time, as the boom of the gunshot echoed around the rock’s overhang, the buck jumped, then staggered a few paces, and fell. He gaped in amazement.

  Excited by the kill, he clambered over stony ground, already seeing the girl’s face when he arrived back with the buck laid across the front of his saddle. They would invite him to stay, skin and gut the animal, and then roast it as he told them about where he lived, and why he had run away from home. It wouldn’t matter if they didn’t understand him.

  *

  Edward’s first shot sounded like a distant twig being snapped as Liam Maguire’s commando led their horses through a narrow pass. The farmhouse was out of sight, and would be until they clambered their way over this range of hills. By the time they heard the second shot, they had remounted and urged their horses on through the difficult terrain. The farmhouse was a refuge, but now, perhaps, they had been warned off by the woman who lived there. Or worse still those damned cavalryman were there.

  The Boer commando was not the only group of men on the veld that day.

  It took Edward another half-hour to bring his horse down to where the buck lay, eyes glazed in death, flies buzzing around its moist eyes and gunshot wound. By the time he had made it back across the escarpment the sun had almost set and the darkening sky sucked light from the land, turning the veld into a purple haze. He was a mile from the farm, and he could already see smoke from the fire pluming upwards. But there were other darkened shapes moving about the building, and he realized that the smoke was not from any roasting pit, but from the house itself. Fear burst into his chest. He slung the weight of the carcass free and urged the horse on.

  *

  ‘Two women and girls in the bed, sir,’ said Sergeant McCory. ‘Pulled back the coverings and they were hiding these rifles ’neath their skirts.’ He nodded to the two soldiers who carried the German rifles. ‘Them gunshots we heard back there might mean the men
who own them will be coming back to claim their property.’ The grizzled sergeant needed the young officer-gentleman to see how vulnerable they were.

  Lawrence Baxter had also heard the muted echo of the gunshots. ‘Then let’s hurry along, Sergeant McCory,’ he said, turning back to where his men were clearing the farmhouse. The woman and her children were being ushered towards a mule-drawn wagon. They were joined by the children’s grandmother, who was being eased from the darkness of the house by Mulraney and Flynn.

  Sergeant McCory lifted the younger children on to the wagon. ‘You and the little ’uns will be safe, you see if you’re not.’

  The children stared blankly at the muscled soldier whose moustache curled down the side of his lips, framing broken and uneven teeth, making his smile of assurance seem more like a snarl of hatred. When he turned to help their grandmother climb on to the flatbed, she snatched away her arm and let her family help her up. The children flinched as two soldiers shot dead the scrawny cattle.

  ‘Julle Engelse! Julle noem julself mans! Skaam julle!’ the old woman hissed derisively.

  McCory stepped away and allowed her to clamber up unassisted: ‘Aye, well, whatever it is you’re on about, I’m sure you’ve got a point, but orders is orders.’

  ‘She says you English call yourself men – you should be ashamed,’ the woman said, settling her aged mother on to a bedroll – as much comfort as could be had on the hard-planked wagon.

  ‘The old girl’s right. And for once in m’life I wish I were an Englishman,’ said Mulraney as he tossed a burning torch into the house’s storeroom.

  ‘Keep those thoughts to yourself, Mulraney,’ said the sergeant, glancing towards their English officer. ‘And get a bloody move on!’ he ordered more severely.

  As the last few pieces of pathetic furniture were roped on to the wagon, McCory moved the men out. Mulraney and the others walked each side of the wagon to ensure no child would think of jumping down and making a run for it into the scrubland.

  ‘This is a beautiful country, missus,’ said Mulraney. ‘Much warmer than where I come from but, still, not much of a place to be fighting over, that’s for sure. Mind you, I’d be doing the same myself if I were in your shoes. Which I’m not. But I could be. If you take my point.’

  Mulraney’s attempt at easing the woman’s grief was to no avail. She gazed back stoically at her burning homestead, clutching her tearful youngest to her skirts.

  Lawrence Baxter eased his horse alongside. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you, but we have to stop your men from coming home for resupplies. You do understand that, I hope?’

  ‘We have nothing,’ she said and spat at him.

  The lieutenant remained silent; this was not the war he wanted either. ‘Mulraney, make sure they get water when they want it.’ He spurred his horse away from her hatred.

  *

  Edward’s horse would soon be blown, its lungs already heaving beyond its ailing strength. He urged it on relentlessly, one hand on the reins, the other clutching the Martini–Henry. He was shouting, raising the rifle, trying to attract the distant soldiers’ attention.

  ‘Hey! No! Don’t hurt them!’ But his voice was swept back into the bleakness of the empty land. With the skill of an experienced rider he gathered the reins and pointed the rifle into the sky and fired a shot. At last the soldiers stopped and turned his way.

  ‘Stand to!’ Sergeant McCory yelled. ‘Rider to your front! Seven hundred yards!’

  The men took up their firing positions. ‘It’s a Boer,’ Mulraney called.

  ‘Nee!’ the woman cried, but was held back by one of the soldiers.

  ‘Wait...’ Lieutenant Baxter ordered, but his command came too late as one of the men fired, and then the others pulled their triggers; a rippling staccato punctured the air.

  Edward saw the puffs of smoke and felt the horse lurch as bullets struck home. He nearly fell, righted himself, tried to steady the horse as the air snapped and whistled around him. The horse was going down. He was barely three hundred yards from the soldiers. Why had they fired? Then a burning crease of pain cut across the side of his head. The blurred image of the veld grass raced upwards; the horse’s legs flailed, and with a jarring impact he fell on to the hard ground.

  Soldiers ran towards him as a distant voice called out commands.

  His last memory was that of the horse’s body shuddering in death beside him and the sound of boots running.

  *

  Liam’s commando had buried those killed by the dragoons as best they could in graves that were little more than scrapes in the hard ground. They covered the bodies with piled-up rocks to stop predators feasting on them. The harsh land seldom offered fresh meat to wild dogs and jackals. They stripped what ammunition they could find, but the killers had taken all the food and had burned everything else. Most of the commando’s horses had been shot; only two had run free and were later caught. It was God’s grace, Corin had said, that Liam and the others were away on patrol when the cavalry struck. And their good fortune still held. They had missed being at the farmhouse below by less than an hour when the soldiers arrived to clear it. Luck was an Irish blessing, he insisted. Jesus, they’d have been huddled in the old place and caught like rats in a trap. As the commando crested the ridge they saw the distant figures running forward from the burning farmstead. One of the Boers was the first to spot the fallen horse and rider lying smothered in the brush. Liam Maguire raised his rifle.

  ‘They’re out of range,’ Corin said.

  ‘Keep them off him, though!’ he said and fired, working the bolt action, as the others followed his example.

  The two soldiers were within thirty yards of Edward’s crumpled body. The crackling of gunfire brought them to a halt. Puffs of dirt kicked up in a broad scattered arc well out of range. Lieutenant Baxter’s voice carried across the plain ordering them back. There was no telling how soon those guns would be in range.

  ‘Leave him! Back to the wagon!’

  ‘Shall we take ’em on, sir?’ McCory said.

  ‘Those are not our orders, sergeant. Get those men back. The Boers won’t risk attacking with their women and children here.’

  ‘Get your arses back here! At the double!’ Sergeant McCory bellowed.

  One of the men turned back, instinctively hunching his shoulders despite the ineffective fire; the other, O’Mara, ran forward, ignoring the commands. His companion yelled: ‘Scouse! Come on! Get out of there!’

  ‘Not yet!’ he shouted back. There had to be something to loot. He turned the body over, rifled the pockets, but found nothing. The rider wasn’t much more than a boy. A dead boy with a head wound. He glanced back – the soldiers were leaving. It had been a long run for nothing. As he got to his feet he saw the boy’s exposed boots: they weren’t worth having, but the bone-handled knife that protruded was. The man bore a scar from ear to lip from a blade of lesser quality than this knife. Snatching his prize he ran back as fast as he could towards the retreating soldiers and Sergeant McCory’s curses.

  By the time the commando made their way down from the hills the soldiers were gone.

  ‘We can still get the bastards,’ Corin said.

  ‘No. They’ve women and kids with them. They’ll find themselves a defensive position in the rocks and we’ll be cut to ribbons. Leave them be,’ Liam answered. ‘You men check the farm, see if there’s anything left we can use,’ he told them and rode forward to where Edward lay.

  *

  They recovered the boy’s body and tied the lad to a horse. By the time Liam’s commando found their next safe haven – a one-room barn well away from any British patrols in a ravine whose high boulders would offer a good defensive position should it be needed – there were already a hundred or more horses tethered outside. A dozen Africans squatted around a fire, huddled against the cold, eating from an iron pot nestled in the fire’s embers. A young Boer stood guard on a craggy outcrop as the men inside relaxed in the warmth and safety offered by the old st
one building. Tobacco smoke fugged the air in the barn as the ragtag Boers drank and ate, mingling with the men from the Foreign Brigade. A couple of the Boers shuffled in a half-hearted dance while one of their men played a squeezebox and another dragged a bow over an old fiddle that had only three strings left on its battered body.

  Liam and his commando pushed through the throng of men. ‘Jesus, these Boers might believe they’re God’s chosen people, but the Almighty must’ve had an off day ’cause these are the most boring bastards who ever tried to squeeze out a tune,’ said Corin, clutching his violin case to his chest.

  Liam pulled one of the men to him. ‘Find Hertzog,’ he said. The fighter nodded and pushed his way through the men towards the barn’s dark corners. Within minutes he returned with one of the Boer commanders. Now that Oom Piet was dead Hendrick Hertzog was the senior man as far as the Boers were concerned and Liam knew as well as the next foreign fighter that a nod had to be given to those whose land had been invaded. He shook Liam’s hand and Liam bent his head towards the man’s ear, speaking plainly and slowly so that he might understand what had happened. Hertzog’s face registered his shock as he heard of the killings, and then turned to follow Liam outside.