by David Gilman
Radcliffe headed for the stables, avoiding marching squads of men as work details unloaded supplies from the railhead yard. An African wearing a floppy broad-brimmed hat loped towards him carrying a pail of water that slopped as he ran. Mhlangana faltered when he saw the exhausted dust-caked man and horse, but quickly offered Radcliffe a ladle of water.
‘Inkosi,’ Mhlangana said. ‘Sawubona, I see you. Drink. Let me help you.’
Radcliffe gazed at the concerned African, for a moment not recognizing him from their previous encounter. Exhaustion had slowed his thoughts, but he quickly gulped the water as his horse dipped its head into the pail and slurped noisily. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Inkosi, you have seen more killing?’ asked Mhlangana, sensing that it was more than tiredness etched on Radcliffe’s face.
‘Enough for a lifetime,’ Radcliffe answered. ‘And I wish never to see it again.’ He smiled grimly.
Mhlangana nodded. ‘There is an African proverb, inkosi: “Human blood is heavy, and the man who has shed it cannot run from it.”’ He looked with compassion at Pierce’s friend.
The words rang true. Radcliffe had spilled enough blood in his time to know of such haunting.
‘Take my horse. Find him a dark corner where it’s cool and give him more water. Can you get him some feed?’ Radcliffe asked.
‘Yes, inkosi,’ said Mhlangana.
‘Is my friend here?’
‘Mr Pierce? No. I have not seen him.’
Radcliffe nodded, and touched the horse’s face with affection. ‘Look after him well, Mhlangana. Where is the field hospital?’
Mhlangana took the horse’s rein. ‘Through the tents across there, into the old farm buildings and the sheds. That is where they have the wounded. I will take your horse to the stable and care for him. I will wait there and watch in case Mr Pierce comes here. Will he come, inkosi?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
*
Radcliffe made his way wearily through the tented area towards the cluster of buildings. What had once been an old railway shed was now a vast hospital ward where orderlies and a handful of nurses attended to the wounded men who lay in four rows of palliasses, one each side and two head-to-head in the centre of the shed. Radcliffe watched as the handful of orderlies attended to the injured; then he stopped one who hurried past with a bundle of bloodied bandages.
‘Where’s the doctor in charge?’
The orderly hardly gave Radcliffe a second look. Despite his appearance his voice carried the authority of an officer. ‘Through that door at the end. There’s another small ward. He’s in there.’
Radcliffe walked along the ranks of the sick. The fighting had been on various fronts, but this looked as though the British had taken a recent beating. Many of the men would never see war again, and some would not see the next day. He pushed through the door that led to a smaller room with no more than twenty-odd stretchers balanced on boxes, makeshift beds bolstered with a blanket beneath each man in a bid to offer some small comfort. An armed guard stood on the other side of the door. He was an older man, probably a non-combatant, but he turned quickly to face the intruder.
‘No entry here, sir, if you please.’
Radcliffe looked past him to where a tall grey-haired man, pince-nez spectacles pinching the bridge of his hooked nose, studied the chart of a wounded man. A Boer. This was the prison ward.
‘I’m here to see the doctor,’ Radcliffe said, scanning the beds. ‘I think my son’s here.’
‘Not here, sir. No, I think you’re mistaken. This is for Dutchies, this room is. Prisoners of war.’
The doctor had raised his head at the intrusion and handed the chart back to the orderly. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
Radcliffe removed his hat. ‘My name is Joseph Radcliffe. I believe my son was brought here, perhaps by Captain Belmont’s troops after a recent action. My boy is sixteen years old, dark hair, and he’s tall for his age. Which might make people think he is older. His name is Edward.’
The older man extended his hand. ‘I’m Amery. I know your name. Not too popular among some back home, Mr Radcliffe.’
‘No.’
‘It’s not my business to ask of the circumstances but I have your boy under my care. Do you know of his injuries?’
‘He’s alive then?’ said Radcliffe, hope pushing weariness aside.
The doctor scowled. ‘You had better know, Mr Radcliffe, that he suffered a grievous wound. It’s my opinion that infection and shock might still take him. He is unconscious. We are doing the best we can.’
‘What kind of wound?’ Radcliffe asked, swallowing hard, being no stranger to mutilation.
‘Sabre. It took his arm between wrist and elbow.’
Radcliffe saw the blade in his mind’s eye. He knew the viciousness of a sabre. How many times had he swung down his own into an enemy and seen the vicious cut inflicted? He nodded, understanding.
Amery took him by the arm and guided him. ‘He’s in the corner.’
Radcliffe stood at the foot of the makeshift bed and gazed down at the gaunt, unconscious Edward. He turned to Amery. ‘May I stay?’
‘Of course,’ he said gently, and gestured to an orderly to bring a stool. ‘For a short while only, I’m afraid.’
Radcliffe nodded. ‘Thank you.’
As Amery turned away Radcliffe could restrain himself no longer. He bent forward and eased his son into his arms and held him, as he would a small child. Amery looked back and saw Radcliffe’s shoulders tremble as he let every regret spill out.
*
Mhlangana brushed the dirt-laden horse with hard, long strokes that made the big Irish horse shiver. A nosebag full of oats contented the great beast. Across the horse’s withers he saw a buggy carrying a white woman and a soldier come to a halt outside the building the British General Reece-Sullivan used as his headquarters. At the rear of the carriage, half-obscured by a trailing horse, Benjamin Pierce eased himself down on to the ground. Evelyn Charteris had told the sentry at the camp’s gate that the African was a scout. Marlowe said nothing. He didn’t care about an African friend of the conchie-loving woman, and had no desire to become more embroiled than he already was. So he kept his mouth shut. Let the darkie be whatever he wanted to be. The sooner he made his report, the sooner he could rejoin Captain Belmont.
Mhlangana could not help smiling when he saw Pierce, who said something to the woman and then strode into the street carrying his rifle and saddle, looking directly to where Radcliffe’s horse was tethered. Mhlangana waited in the stable’s shadows, uncertain whether to show that he knew this big man who carried his own weapon. Pierce grinned when he reached him, dropped the saddle and embraced the man who had helped them at Tugela. Mhlangana winced.
‘My brother, I see you,’ said Mhlangana.
The two men shook hands. ‘I see you, Mhlangana.’ Pierce saw the slight stoop of a man who’s been beaten and is trying to ease the burden of the shirt on his back. ‘You hurt?’
‘It is nothing,’ said Mhlangana.
Pierce turned him half around. He could see the top of the welts behind Mhlangana’s collar. ‘The British whip you?’ he asked.
Mhlangana nodded. ‘For helping you with the gun. I told you, we are not permitted to fight.’
‘Then why help?’
‘The English will beat us, but the Boer, he would shoot us. Blacks mean nothing to them. They are our real foe: we are blood enemies. The English are harsh but the Boers do not even see us. Who would you choose to help?’
‘Damned if I know,’ said Pierce. ‘Is Joseph Radcliffe here?’
‘He is already here, yes.’
‘Is there anyone with him? A boy?’
‘No, there is no one. But your friend, he came a long way and he has the eyes of a man who has seen a bad thing. A very bad thing. He has gone to the hospital.’
‘Did the train bring in wounded?’
‘Yes. But they were not English. They were Boers.’
*
They had allowed Radcliffe less than an hour with his son, but there was little use in him staying while Amery and the nurses attended to the boy. There was nowhere for Radcliffe to sit and wait and despite his anxiety the reality of his hunger and thirst finally prompted him to seek out food. As he walked across the dusty street, now empty of marching soldiers, a small group of cavalry approached, their horses at an easy walk, cluttered, not in formation – a group of men going back up the line. Radcliffe stopped and turned in the middle of the street. He had recognized their leader. It was Belmont and his marauders.
Pierce took the last bite of an apple as he leaned against the stable door’s rough wood and glanced down the street. He saw Radcliffe stop. Pierce tossed the apple core away and without taking his eyes from the unfolding scene called out softly to the African: ‘Mhlangana, fetch my rifle. Quickly now.’
The horsemen came into view and then halted a dozen strides from where his friend stood.
Pierce ran his tongue over his teeth. There would be a shit storm if Radcliffe attacked Belmont. And both Radcliffe and Pierce could either be dead in the next few minutes or in front of a firing squad by next morning. Military justice would be swift. He took the weapon from a concerned Mhlangana and eased a round into its chamber. Outside, nothing seemed to move. Belmont sat at the head of the phalanx of his men watching Radcliffe. Neither man reached for a weapon. Flies buzzed and settled. Horses shook their heads, rattling bit and bridle. Belmont looked unconcerned as he studied the man he knew to be his enemy although, if the American was here in Swartberg, perhaps Radcliffe knew what had happened at the ambush.
‘Your boy chose the wrong side,’ Belmont said. ‘Seems the puppy slipped its lead.’
Radcliffe realized in that moment that it had to have been Belmont who ambushed the train. He made no gesture or threat but neither did he move. Perhaps, Pierce thought, Radcliffe was daring Belmont to pass him. If such was the case then Pierce reasoned that Radcliffe would not let him. Radcliffe’s hand moved slowly to the butt of his pistol, a small gesture that did not go unnoticed by Belmont. The edge of Belmont’s mouth creased slightly in a restrained smile of understanding. So be it.
‘The lad had a mind to kill me. He has courage – anyone can see that. I took his arm not his life. Consider him lucky.’
Radcliffe saw the man’s eyes glint. Here and now. They would finish it in this street. He grasped Belmont’s reins, pistol half cleared; Belmont wrenched them free, his fist curled around his sabre’s hilt. For a few brief heartbeats it was as if each man sought the advantage. Radcliffe sidestepped and levelled the revolver, but Belmont’s men pressed forward as their captain brought his horse back under control.
Pierce’s thumb had already pulled back the rifle’s hammer and tensioned the rear trigger when the door of the building across the street opened and General Reece-Sullivan’s aide-de-camp came out and quickly took in the stand-off. Whatever was going on between these two men was not clear but it was apparent that violence would soon erupt. He clattered down the few steps to the street and stood a few paces from Radcliffe’s shoulder.
‘Mr Radcliffe, sir. General Reece-Sullivan’s compliments.’ He waited a moment but neither Belmont nor Radcliffe looked away from the other. Belmont’s sabre was now in his hand; Radcliffe’s gun hand did not waver. A cold-blooded killing in the main street would lead to a certain conviction. The aide-de-camp tried again with a more insistent tone. ‘Sir. General Reece-Sullivan would very much appreciate it if you would join him in his office. Now, Mr Radcliffe.’
Radcliffe’s aim and gaze stayed on Belmont. It was Evelyn Charteris’s voice that broke the spell.
‘Joseph.’
Radcliffe turned, surprised to see her, and then glanced at the aide-de-camp, as if registering his presence for the first time. The aide-de-camp dipped his head respectfully.
‘Major Radcliffe. If you please, sir, would you accompany me?’
Radcliffe lowered his revolver. ‘You’ve injured my son twice, Belmont. I will come for you and I will kill you for it.’
Without another word he stepped past the aide-de-camp and strode towards Evelyn, who waited at the door, her concern eased by his approach.
Pierce lowered his rifle. He had sighted on the man who rode behind Belmont, knowing Belmont would be Radcliffe’s target. He sighed with relief. They had been a squeeze of a trigger away from sudden violence.
Belmont eased his horse forward at the walk past the aide-de-camp, who followed a respectful stride behind Radcliffe as he approached Evelyn. She took his hands in her own. Her warmth seeped into him and he felt a surge of gratitude for her presence. Evelyn held his eyes with her own, beseeching him to remain calm.
‘Joseph. Thank God. We brought in Mr Pierce,’ she said quietly.
‘He’s here? Is he hurt?’
‘No. We’ve only just got here. His horse broke a leg. It was fortunate we saw him.’
Radcliffe looked around quickly. There was no obvious sign of Pierce. ‘Why are you here?’
She grimaced and shook her head. ‘Sheenagh O’Connor was shot and killed after she left us at Bergfontein. They’ve arrested an English officer. Captain Belmont had her followed and his trooper witnessed the killing.’
‘Belmont? And the officer?’
‘Major Taylor.’
Radcliffe tried to put a face to the name but could not.
‘Did you find your son?’ she asked.
‘He’s in the field hospital. Belmont’s ambush was a success. My boy lost half his arm.’
Evelyn Charteris did not flinch. She saw Radcliffe’s anxiety and squeezed his hands tighter still. ‘You’re wanted, inside. I’ll stay with your son.’
Radcliffe pulled her to him instinctively, his lips touching her forehead. Despite the heat and dust he was aware of the scent of her and it gave him a longing for her. Embarrassed, he released her. Her smile told him there was no need for forgiveness. He nodded his thanks as the aide-de-camp held the door open.
As Radcliffe was escorted inside the building, Evelyn walked briskly across to the stables and was quickly concealed by its cool shadows. She looked vainly for Pierce, but saw another African who kept his head down as he cleaned a stall, only glancing up to watch she was not followed, and then signalled with his head that she should look to her left.
‘Mrs Charteris,’ Pierce said as he stepped from behind stacked bales of hay.
Evelyn whispered quickly: ‘Mr Pierce, I heard orders given in the general’s office that Mr Radcliffe is to be held under armed escort. More than that I do not know. Edward is badly injured. A sabre took his arm.’ She saw the news of the injury register in his eyes. ‘Stay here. Do not attempt to approach him, otherwise you too will be in jeopardy. I will do what I can.’ She smiled in encouragement at Pierce’s stern look of concern. ‘Good luck to us all, Mr Pierce.’
She turned quickly and was soon out of sight.
Pierce felt his guts squirm. Edward was badly injured. Surely the British would send the boy home. And why would they hold Radcliffe?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The general’s room was large, with a broad desk straddling the centre of the room. Woven rugs added a blood-red warmth to the polished planks. Along one side of the wall trestle tables bore rolls of maps, and stretched across one wall was a large waxed map, broad enough for three men to stand in front of, and high enough to require a stick to point out details. It was a permanent fixture with small tagged flags positioned here and there: some clustered together, others spread out in lines of varying colours that clearly indicated different regiments in the field. It was a fine map, drawn and printed with skill by
craftsmen in England. It showed shaded foothills of mountain ranges that curved from the bottom left corner of the map and snaked their way across the coloured landscape. The symbolic ladder lines of a railway track cut across the expansive plain through the foothills and disappeared off the edge. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling and were placed strategically around the room. The British high command were obliged to work through the hours of darkness as they planned their attack on the Boer army. There was electric light, but they could not afford to let a power failure hinder their planning.
General Reece-Sullivan stood in front of the wall map, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His back was to the door when Radcliffe entered the room. Three other staff officers were present, bent over an unfurled map on one of the trestle tables. They glanced in Radcliffe’s direction and then went back to their studies.