by David Gilman
General Reece-Sullivan listened patiently. There was no need for him to act otherwise. A decision had already been reached. It made no difference what these non-combatants said; they were civilians in a fighting man’s war.
The surgeon pressed his case. ‘I would urge you to consider Mr Radcliffe’s appeal quite seriously, general, otherwise should you authorize this boy’s execution I will have no choice but to go directly to Lord Kitchener,’ said Sir George.
Lieutenant Colonel McFarlane said, ‘Our telegraph wires were cut two days ago by the Boers. Lord Kitchener had already instructed that each field commander has the right, under army regulations, to make appropriate decisions in these matters. I believe the general has followed the correct procedure, Sir George. It really is a military matter.’
Reece-Sullivan picked up the document from his desk. ‘The surviving commandos under your care, Sir George, will be held as prisoners of war.’
Radcliffe felt a brief surge of relief. Sir George Amery dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘Thank you, general. Thank you,’ said the surgeon.
However,’ said Reece-Sullivan, looking directly at Radcliffe, ‘not your boy.’
Radcliffe and Sir George knew the decision had gone against them.
‘You cannot –’ said Radcliffe.
Reece-Sullivan stood like a figurehead between the two officers. ‘See the reality. An Englishman shot and killed two British soldiers while riding with Irish volunteers of the Foreign Brigade. He will be executed tomorrow morning.’ He pointed to the sheet of paper on his desk. ‘The field punishment has already been signed.’
Sir George Amery looked as distraught as Radcliffe.
‘No,’ said Radcliffe, his mind racing, searching for any vulnerability in the general’s decision. ‘No... you cannot execute him. His mother is Irish. Under Irish law he can claim citizenship from the maternal line. It’s a law recognized even by the English courts. He has committed no act of treason.’
Reece-Sullivan and the officers could not hide their concern. Colonel McFarlane looked surprised, but Major Summers leaned forward and spoke quietly, shielding his mouth with his hand.
‘General, as you know I served with the judge advocate’s office before I transferred to my line regiment. He is correct. It’s a point of law that cannot be ignored. If the boy claims the citizenship of his mother he is, strictly speaking, a prisoner of war.’
Neither Radcliffe nor Sir George could hear what was being said, but a spark of hope flared when Radcliffe saw Reece-Sullivan’s scowl. But then the general shook his head and turned away from the two officers to face Radcliffe.
‘Your father was English. You were born in England,’ challenged Reece-Sullivan.
‘I’m a naturalized American. My father took me there when I was barely two years old,’ Radcliffe answered.
The general pushed a sheet of paper on his desk with his forefinger, squaring it so that the desktop retained its order. ‘As far as I am concerned, in English law the child takes the birthright of his father. Your son is English whichever way one looks at it.’ He raised his eyes and looked directly at Radcliffe. ‘You will be allowed to see your son before sentence is carried out. You are not deemed to be an enemy, Radcliffe, but you will remain under escort – and confined until after my troops have moved up the line and the offensive has begun.’
*
Mhlangana watched the black American stride towards the stables. He was a stranger in a country where he had no business to be. How, Mhlangana wondered, had a man who looked as strong as any warrior, and who would be a respected elder, an umkhulu, in any Zulu clan, come with the white man as a friend and not as a servant? Zulus had fought their wars. They had once slain Xhosas and taken their land, they had beaten the redcoat English in the past, but these new soldiers dressed in the colour of the dirt fought a white enemy. And when the black American went back to his land, wherever that was, then the war would go on until the Boer was brought to his knees. Would the defeated Boers be whipped with a sjambok? Would the English make them their servants? If they did, what would that do for the Africans? How much lower could they sink under the white men? Perhaps the day would come when the great African tribes, Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Pondo, Tswana, all of them and more, forgot their enmity towards each other and raised their spears together. He sighed. It would never happen. Too much had been lost in the past and the spirits of their forefathers wandered in a land ruled by white ghosts. Mhlangana went about his cleaning duties in the stall, deliberately ignoring Pierce who dumped the laundry bag.
Pierce savoured the comforting smell of horseflesh, a welcome relief from the stench of the soiled bandages in the bag. He quickly went to the corner stall and shoved his hands into the straw, feeling for his rifle and the two sabres that were hidden there. Satisfied that they were still safe he turned and gestured Mhlangana to him. The African checked carefully that no one saw him move away from where he was sweeping a stall.
‘When the supply train comes in at midnight, we’re going to escape with Mr Radcliffe’s son,’ Pierce told him.
The African showed no sign of surprise but Pierce knew that by telling him Mhlangana now shared the risk. If a native levy contravened any rule the least he could expect was a flogging. Mhlangana nodded. He was no fool – he knew Pierce would need help and if he became involved then he would most likely suffer the same fate as the Boer boy that morning. He barely hesitated in making his decision and scratched a shape in the dirt with the end of his pitchfork.
‘Here, this is where the train will stop. They will unload the train at first light. We must go behind the sheds at the other side of the track and then you will have a chance. It’s a long train and the boxcars and the buildings will shield you. I will help you with the horses and the boy.’
Pierce saw the layout of the rail track and the sheds in his mind’s eye. There were cattle pens for the long-horned beef away from the soldiers’ bivouacs, and if he and the others could use the length of the train to obscure their escape and move between the track and the shelter of the cattle pens they could reach the outskirts of the camp and slip past the pickets. Somehow.
‘Which direction do we head?’
Mhlangana’s voice was barely a whisper as one of the other levies came into sight carrying a bale of straw. ‘You must go north and east across the mountains into Zululand and in a few days you will be in Delagoa Bay. There you will be able to get a Portuguese ship.’
Pierce nodded. That made sense. If they got into Portuguese-held territory they would be safe from the British.
‘But it is very hard to get there,’ said Mhlangana. ‘The English are going to win this war and there is nothing anyone can do about that. So they will send men after you.’
‘I see that – but we can’t let them kill the boy.’
Mhlangana clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Ai. That would be bad. Which is why I will take you through the mountains.’
‘You know it won’t matter if the Boers or the English catch us – they’ll shoot you.’
‘I am Zulu. A warrior does not fear death. And they will never catch me.’
Pierce matched Mhlangana’s grin, and quickly retrieved his revolver from the straw. ‘Have the horses ready, muffle their hooves and make sure we have enough supplies for a week. Can you do that?’
Mhlangana nodded. ‘I will have four horses saddled and ready before the train arrives.’
‘Make it five. Mrs Charteris is coming with us.’
*
Pierce stood in the lee of one of the storage sheds and watched as Radcliffe was escorted from his quarters. The general had obviously taken an extra precaution and ordered the American be placed in leg irons until the next morning’s execution was over. Pierce lifted a pail of water and made his way to where Radcliffe stripped off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and turned back the collar on his shirt. He leaned into the tin bowl of water balanced on a makeshift stand and soaped and rinsed his neck a
nd face. As Pierce got closer he hoped his approach would not make the guard suspicious. It was a different soldier, but one who was just as alert. The man stood with the butt of his rifle resting on the ground, but as soon as Pierce got within thirty paces the weapon came up to his waist and was levelled.
‘Halt! What you doin’ ’ere?’
Pierce drooped his shoulders in a gesture of submission. ‘Baas.’
The guard looked at the bucket. ‘He’s got water. Bugger off.’
‘Baas?’ Pierce said again.
‘Fuck off. Go! Hamba!’
Pierce looked as dumb as he could.
‘He doesn’t understand English,’ said Radcliffe.
‘Everybody understands a boot up the arse,’ said the guard, taking a threatening step towards Pierce.
‘Look,’ said Radcliffe in a conciliatory tone, ‘let him bring the water. He’s only following orders. The guard commander sent him yesterday. They’ll only flog him if he doesn’t and maybe you’ll be the one to get a kick up the arse. The army does things its own way. Why risk antagonizing anyone? It’s your guard commander who sent him. It’s only water.’
The guard thought about it for a moment. ‘All right. Hurry up,’ he said.
Pierce remained dumb and stooped as if not understanding.
‘Hurry up! Come on!’ the guard said, raising his voice and gesturing for what he took to be an ignorant savage to get a move on.
Radcliffe tossed the soapy water from the bowl and allowed Pierce to refill it with the clean water, making sure he stood between Pierce and the guard a dozen paces behind him.
‘Midnight train it is. The horses will be at the stables,’ Pierce whispered as Radcliffe saw the revolver in the bottom of the bucket. He reached in and quickly tucked it into his waistband.
‘Get Edward out, Ben. I’ll get to the stables but I need to give the general something to think about. He needs a distraction otherwise they’ll be all over us.’
Pierce had no time to question his friend. Whatever Radcliffe planned he knew each of them would find a way to secure Edward’s release and escape. Pierce nodded and then Radcliffe deliberately tipped what was left in the bucket over his front.
‘Damn!’ he said and pushed his friend away. ‘Clumsy bastard!’
Pierce staggered a few steps away in pretence as Radcliffe bemoaned his soaked front, which now concealed any chance of the wet pistol being seen. As Pierce scurried away he did not look over his shoulder and see the guard’s smirk. His friend was armed and whether the guard lived or died that night meant nothing to Pierce.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The sunset seeped into the blue of the night sky; the day’s heat was sucked down behind the black mountain ridges. African darkness came suddenly, as if the scorched land was desperate for respite – to slumber before bracing itself for the dawn’s arrival.
Pierce had waited patiently as the hours ticked by, seeing in his mind’s eye the route he would take across the compound, using shadows and the dull-edged buildings for cover. The field hospital could be reached without him being noticed. The waiting was the worst part. A man’s imagination could whip him into blind alleys of fear as the thoughts of what could go wrong gained prominence. But Pierce had spent a lifetime waiting patiently, from his boyhood escape to being a Buffalo Soldier and hiding for days on end, unmoving as a lethal enemy hunted him. The American West was little different to the South African veld, and soon he would be hunted again. He doubted that being an American would save him if he was captured. He and Mhlangana were brothers of colour. And no one would ever know that the old veteran had met his end face down in the African dirt. The irony made him smile. Dead in a place his own ancestors had been taken from.
In the darkness of the stables the big Irish horse’s withers rippled as it dipped its head and champed on the bit. Pierce made final adjustments to the saddle’s girth, lowered the stirrup and then securely strapped on Radcliffe’s cavalry sabre. Four more horses were saddled and ready in the near darkness of the stalls. The flickering of oil lamps here and there among the camp’s bivouacs cast sufficient light to show Mhlangana fixing a small sack of supplies on to one of the horses. They checked that the sacking around the horses’ hooves was tied on firmly enough. It was almost time. Pierce and Mhlangana were dressed just like the Boer commandos or the African scouts who lived on the veld. Trouser legs were pulled over their boots and a buttoned woollen waistcoat over a shirt complemented their short rough-weave jackets. Their brimmed hats cast their faces even further into shadow. Each had a bandolier of ammunition on his saddle ready to be pulled across the chest. If there was a fight they would give a good account of themselves. Pierce tugged on his leather riding gloves.
‘She will come?’ whispered Mhlangana. ‘Mrs Charteris?’
‘She’s at the hospital making sure I can get in. Don’t worry, she’ll be here.’
The horse snuffled at Pierce’s hand as he looked towards the darkening rail yard. His eyes adjusted to the dimness as his gaze followed the dull glow of the railway tracks disappearing into the blackness. Every time in his life he had been prepared to face danger and commit violence a sliver of edginess had quivered in his belly. Only when he committed to what he had to do would it leave him. He was tempted to check the watch that nestled on the end of its chain in his waistcoat pocket – but it would be a useless exercise in this near darkness. Instead he waited patiently, listening for the distant approach of the supply train. He saw the shadows move as Mhlangana steadied the horses. Pierce nodded to himself. The man knew how to deal with them. Best to stay calm so they didn’t pick up the men’s nervousness. Years of conflict, of waiting for an enemy attack or striking through the night into an opponent’s camp, keyed up the senses. A state of readiness that never left until the action began. Killing would be part of the night’s work if it came to it – the how and the why did not matter. He just hoped that Edward did what was necessary. Pulling a man’s face close to your own and plunging a knife into him meant ignoring the part of you that screamed out in disgust. It took something special to be able to do it. The first time, that is. After that it was easier. The distant train whistle interrupted his thoughts.
Time to go.
*
Five lives depended on each of their actions as the minutes ticked away until the moment when the distant train whistle signalled its approach. There would be little time before the train pulled into the rail siding. Radcliffe listened for the muted sound of his guard shuffling outside, until his dry cough, the cough so many soldiers had picked up from the extreme climate, signalled his whereabouts.
Radcliffe waited until he heard the man move closer to the door and then quickly sat down on the edge of the bed and spooned stew into his mouth. He had deliberately not eaten the evening meal the sentry had brought and now it was cold, the congealed watery gravy forming a greasy slick on the plate. The guard detail would be changed an hour after midnight if the previous night’s sentry rotation was followed. The moment he heard the approaching train he began to heave and cough as if choking, which wasn’t hard given the gristle that passed for meat and the oily slime that clung to it. By the time the guard peered through the barred window Radcliffe was writhing on the dirt floor. He heard the sentry curse and fumble for the keys in the lock. The soldier saw his prisoner grasping his throat, his face red, with spittle and stew spewing from his mouth. As the sentry knelt and reached forward Radcliffe pulled free the concealed revolver and struck him with the knurled butt.
It took him less than a minute to retrieve the leg-iron’s key but he hesitated, undecided whether to tie the man up or not. Who knew how long he might remain unconscious? He had no desire to kill the man: all he’d done was stand the night watch and do his duty. Radcliffe dragged the unconscious guard to the old iron bedstead and fed the leg-iron chain through the metal crosspiece, then turned the man’s back and bound his wrists. He quickly unwound the khaki puttee from the man’s leg and gagged his mouth. That at least
would buy some time. He locked the door behind him and tossed the keys into the night. The train whistle sounded closer. Radcliffe quickly got his bearings and, denying himself the urge to run, walked quickly towards the heavy shadow that he knew to be the general’s headquarters.
*
As Pierce edged through the deepening shadows towards the field hospital he heard a scuffle from behind one of the tin buildings. A man grunted and then there was the thud of a body falling. The disturbance came directly from the route he needed to take. There was no way for him to avoid it. If he didn’t carry on then he would have to cross a couple of hundred yards of open space where men slept in their bivouacs. He hesitated. What lay ahead? If there was a commotion those troops would be on their feet at once with rifles in hand. He darted quickly alongside the building and stepped into its shadow. The moon’s glow came and went behind the clouds, but even in the half-light he could see Major Taylor bending over a soldier’s unconscious body, ready to ram the man’s bayonet into his back. Something glinted. It was not the blade on the end of the rifle but gold coins that Taylor hastily snatched from the dirt. The scuff of Pierce’s boots alerted Taylor, who turned quickly, bringing up the rifle. For a second the men faced each other. Two horses were tethered twenty feet away, saddled and provisioned. Incomprehension creased Taylor’s face. He wore no cap or helmet and his eyes widened once he knew who faced him.
‘You!’ he hissed in recognition and levered the rifle’s bolt action.
‘Pull that trigger and you’ll wake the whole damned British Army. You won’t be going nowhere except to that firing squad,’ said Pierce, his voice deliberately low.
Taylor’s reaction was sudden and silent. He lunged in a classic infantryman attack. Pierce jumped back and half turned, but Taylor was skilful enough to correct his own balance and slashed with the rifle. The bayonet caught Pierce’s coat but failed to draw blood. Taylor’s eyes stayed locked on the American’s and he threw his weight forward again with two rapid strides, grunting with determination, choking back the urge to cry out aggressively as all soldiers were taught to when lunging with the bayonet for the kill.