by David Gilman
‘Sir?’ his aide-de-camp queried after the general had stood stock-still in front of the vandalized map for a full minute. Reece-Sullivan took another half-minute before he brought his scattered thoughts under control. He had jeopardized the advance and his commander-in-chief would be as unforgiving towards him as he had towards Major Taylor, the Boer and Edward Radcliffe. He would be relieved of command. At the very least. Perhaps worse. Reece-Sullivan was beating thousands of the enemy but one man threatened to bring down everything. He needed as strong a case as he could muster to convince any inquiry that he had acted in an appropriate manner.
‘I was right all along,’ he said, forcing calm into his voice. ‘And my report shall reflect that the American was obviously a spy here to aid the enemy. It’s obvious to me that if one looks at the facts, as we now know them, that Radcliffe and Major Taylor most likely worked together and were complicit in the murder of the woman who threatened to expose them. Radcliffe, with the help of someone, who we will presume to be one of the natives, escaped and killed his accomplice and his guard. We were not to know that he had somehow bribed this missing African to help him. The record will show that Radcliffe was to be executed. As a spy. Him and the boy.’ General Reece-Sullivan took refuge from the uncertainty of his thoughts and his future behind his tidy desk. ‘Have the sentries who were on duty here last night charged with dereliction of duty.’
The aide-de-camp recognized the cover-up might work, but not all the pieces fitted.
‘And the Charteris woman, sir? She has a public following back home – even among some politicians. Are you... are we... saying that she was involved?’
Reece-Sullivan hesitated, concealing his uncertainty for the moment by selecting a cigarette from the silver cigarette box. ‘No, of course she was not involved. A woman like Mrs Charteris might be a nuisance to us, but her humanitarian efforts have garnered widespread support, as you say. No... she... she was obviously forced to accompany Radcliffe...’
He paused. There needed to be a sound reason for his report to be feasible and accepted with as few questions as possible.
‘To care for the injured boy,’ his aide-de-camp suggested.
Reece-Sullivan lit the cigarette. ‘Yes. Exactly. Very well. Signal those concerned, tell them Radcliffe is going to warn the Boers. He’ll have to go down the valley.’
‘It’s too early, general. The heliograph won’t work. The mist hasn’t lifted yet, sir.’
‘Then when it does,’ Reece-Sullivan retorted sharply. Then relented. ‘Thank you.’
*
The valley was little more than a hard-baked swathe of scrub and anthills, like most of the battlefields the British had found themselves fighting across during this war. Broad enough for a battalion to march abreast, its twisting route cut north-west through the mountain ranges and their escarpments. Reece-Sullivan’s commanders had been moving their troops along the left flank of the valley for days, using the high ground to set their infantry. The plan was for the artillery in the north to bombard the Boer positions. Some would try and escape northwards, that was expected, but there were cut-off battalions waiting for them, while here in the south the Scottish and Irish troops would have a day’s sport firing down into the defenceless Boers as they were forced into the killing ground. They would have no cover and mass surrender would be their only option once the firepower cut into them. If these thousands of Boers were taken out of the war – one way or the other – Reece-Sullivan’s regiments would have a clear route to march north and attack the rear flank of the massed Boer army. A decisive victory was close at hand.
Pierce and the others were on the opposite mountain range. Mhlangana had taken them safely through the night and put enough distance between them and the English troops. Pierce called a halt and eased Edward from the saddle, laying him in the coolness of the rocks as the sun rose behind them. It would soon bring all the force of its heat to bear. As Evelyn tended to the wounded boy and Mhlangana prepared cold food, Pierce, rifle in hand, backtracked the few hundred yards to where sawtooth peaks shielded them from the valley. It felt as though he were on the roof of the world. The river of mist curling below twisted sluggishly, evaporating in the sun’s rays. Pierce pulled open his field telescope and studied the distant troop positions. He could see men behind the rocks spread right along the opposite ridge. Sweeping his eye along the escarpment, he saw that they were little more than three hundred feet above the valley floor, but this gave the soldiers a strong defensive position and an ideal place to set an ambush. His own safety and that of those with him was of constant concern and he scanned the ground behind them, left and right along the route Mhlangana had brought them – but there was no sign of pursuit. By nightfall they would be well clear, a day closer to Portuguese East Africa and a ship home.
The night ride had gone well. Their slow, unhurried pace helped the wounded boy and the morphia that the surgeon had given them would see him through. Pierce had no doubt that Edward would be strong enough to survive, but the old soldier’s experience told him that his friend might not be so lucky. He scanned the valley again as the morning mist rose up like ghosts of the dead, disappearing into the rocks and sky. It laid its gossamer dampness over him, leaving a residue of moisture on his jacket. He wiped a hand across his face. This place would soon be a vale of tears.
He was careful to angle the eyeglass so that the sun’s rays did not catch it and expose his position to those on the opposite ridge; now that the mist had lifted he saw the ranged troops more clearly in the sharp morning light. A sudden glint caught the corner of his eye. In the far distance a heliograph mirror flashed. He lowered the field telescope and saw the dark shape of man and horse below. They were motionless. He tightened the focus. It was Radcliffe on the Irish stallion.
Pierce’s cry of recognition and fear caught in his throat. He was helpless. All he could do was watch.
*
Brevet Major Lawrence Baxter buttoned his tunic. It had been a long cold night and his mouth tasted of the staleness that came from cheap tobacco and rough, hip-flask brandy. There had been no hot food for the past twenty-four hours and he willed the distant guns to start their rumbling thunder so the poor bastards could be driven on to his riflemen’s fire. He was grateful that the Royal Irish were at the end of the line. The Scottish regiment up the line to their left would have first go at the retreating Boers coming from the north and those that got through had Belmont’s marauders to deal with. It seemed unlikely that anyone desperate enough to gallop down the valley would survive. The sooner the killing started the better, he reasoned. Kill and move on. Keep killing until someone cried enough and signed a peace treaty that would haunt a nation for eternity but would at least save his soldiers from mutilation and death. He banished the pessimism from his mind. He would get his men through as best he could.
‘Will you look at him!’ cried Mulraney. ‘Jeezus, the man’s a sight for sore eyes!’
Baxter looked towards Mulraney as Sergeant McCory quickly approached with a field pad’s sheet of paper clenched in his fist. He handed it to Baxter.
‘Heliograph message, sir. We’re to stop Mr Radcliffe getting through the valley. Orders are to shoot him.’
Baxter checked the text. It confirmed what McCory had said.
‘What in God’s name is going on?’ he said and strode quickly towards Mulraney and the others who gazed down from their positions onto the valley.
‘You see him, major?’ said Mulraney. ‘Man’s sitting like he’s not a care in the world. Shouldn’t we tell him the boojers are gonna come full bloody tilt down there once the guns start?’
Baxter shook his head. It didn’t make sense. ‘What the hell is he doing down there?’
He heard the creak of a saddle and a horse’s hoof scuff the ground. He looked over his shoulder. Belmont was tying a sweat rag around his neck; a half-smoked cheroot drooped from his lips. ‘I suspect he’s waiting for me,’ said the dragoon. He tossed the cheroot, settled his slouch
bush hat on his head and without haste guided the horse towards the meandering track that led down to the valley.
‘Sir?’ said McCory, needing an answer.
Lawrence Baxter squinted through the sunlight at the horseman below. ‘The men are to hold their fire. Send a message asking for confirmation.’
That confirmation came soon enough. The mirrors flashed back and forth. The direct order was to be obeyed without hesitation. By the time the final message was in Baxter’s hand Belmont had navigated his horse down the rocky path and the Royal Irish soldiers were standing watching the two men below them. None knew why the dragoon captain had ridden down but barracks rumour from the time at the Dublin garrison was that the arrogant Belmont had insulted Radcliffe’s dead wife and thrashed his son on the New Year horse race. Others said Belmont had severed young Radcliffe’s arm in the Boer ambush. Whatever the cause, there was a score about to be settled.
‘Two to one your man Radcliffe will take him,’ said Mulraney.
‘I’d have a guinea on that if I had it,’ said another.
‘Five to one,’ said Corporal Murphy. ‘Major Radcliffe’s an old hand.’
‘Belmont’s a mean bastard,’ said Flynn, picking a lump of dust-clogged snot from his nose. ‘I’d have a half-crown on him.’
‘Shut the gab!’ said Sergeant McCory, but stood behind his men, as interested as they were in what was going on.
*
Belmont settled his horse fifty yards from Radcliffe. He saw that the American had a fine mount, better than his own. But Belmont was the younger and stronger man by some years and that’s what mattered.
‘War changes everything,’ said Belmont, watching Radcliffe, who seemed equally unconcerned about what was going to happen between them.
‘Killing never changes,’ said Radcliffe. ‘And you damned near killed my son.’
‘I did,’ said Belmont, drawing his sabre, feeling the horse bristle as it sensed his tension. ‘He would have shot me. It was fair.’
‘I know, but I’m still going to kill you for it,’ said Radcliffe. ‘There’s a meanness in you that needs to be stopped. You’re a man that needs killing.’ He slid the cavalry sabre from its scabbard.
Belmont gathered the reins in his left hand, the leather tight against his riding gloves. He saw Radcliffe do the same. The Irish horse tucked in its head, its haunches bunching, hooves back-pacing, coiling for the charge. Man and horse eager to attack.
A moment of realization broke into Belmont’s concentration. ‘You’re buying time. That’s what this is about. Did you get the boy away?’ he said, letting his eyes sweep across the opposite mountains. ‘Course you did.’
The horses scuffed the ground with anticipation, both riders controlling their fidgeting mounts.
‘It’s been a good war, Radcliffe, but it’s changing... trench warfare, big guns... small-minded generals... I’ll wager there’ll be little use for cavalry when this is over... No one to test ourselves against.’
The rising sun behind Radcliffe cast a long shadow. He had the advantage and knew he needed it. ‘You won’t need to,’ he said and spurred the horse on.
They charged, sword arm held forward, wrists half-turned, blades’ cutting edge ready to strike. It took less than ten seconds for them to barge and clash. Radcliffe’s horse was the stronger and he heeled it into Belmont’s. Muscle met muscle and the impact slowed Belmont’s blow but he had half expected the assault and blocked Radcliffe’s sabre thrust. Blades clanged, both men tight-reining their horses to keep them close. Their grunting efforts forced the blades back and forth in a flurry of slash and block, lunge and parry. Glancing blows cut into the horses. Wild-eyed, they snorted and whinnied. Belmont yanked the reins hard, forcing his mount’s head violently away while Radcliffe used his legs to urge the horse into the attack, saving its mouth from a vicious grinding of the bit. Their sabres locked; each man’s strength was tested. Belmont’s gritted teeth yielded a snarl. Radcliffe’s left hand was suddenly free of the reins and his body twisted, keeping Belmont’s sabre out of harm’s way, but slamming his fist into the side of Belmont’s head.
Had the morning breeze carried the mutterings from the Irish ranks, Radcliffe would have heard Mulraney swear that the American was a street-fighter. Radcliffe had once fought the Plains Indians hand to hand and that bitter experience gave him an edge. The dragoon rocked from the blow as Radcliffe drew back his sabre and slashed. The blade cut through Belmont’s field jacket but the man’s horse veered away, saving him from serious injury. Belmont hauled on the reins, spitting blood from the blow that had glanced down his face and split his lip. It was of no consequence to him: the taste of blood was good. He attacked.
Radcliffe barely had time to defend himself. Belmont was a seasoned fighter; he feinted and with a rapid turn of his wrist brought his blade down across Radcliffe’s chest. The sabre’s tip ripped cloth and cut skin; Radcliffe twisted but the blade’s momentum bit into his left shoulder and he felt the burn as it seared his flesh. He was suddenly vulnerable. His defence exposed. He pulled his foot free from the stirrup and raked Belmont’s thigh with his spur, an attack that made the dragoon curse and served to offset his expected blow, which slashed through the air inches from Radcliffe’s head.
Dust churned and sweat stung their eyes, but Radcliffe had bought vital seconds and rained a flurry of blows on his opponent. Belmont reeled but kicked his horse free from the melee. Both men sucked the dry, gritty air into their lungs. A quickening breeze made dust scuttle across the valley floor as they repositioned themselves for another charge. Belmont had claimed first blood. Radcliffe’s wound trickled stickily into his shirt, which clung to the wound. He took a second to check – it was a cut that he could staunch; no artery had been slashed. Despite the stinging pain he knew it to be superficial. A sabre’s heavy blade could take a limb, but he had been lucky. For a moment he sagged in the saddle and let the pain’s keenness hold him. The horse’s wheeling meant the sun’s glare was now against him and he squinted as Belmont turned his horse left and right, seeking the angle for his attack, assessing how best to deliver the killing blow to the wounded American.
Radcliffe heard a plaintive cry from a distant past. He and Pierce had once fought the Comanche, whose war-painted braves knew when death was about to take them. In his mind’s eye he saw the outnumbered warriors that the Buffalo Soldiers were about to kill. They chanted their death song and then urged their ponies forward, right into their enemy. This South African valley now swirled with their ghosts as the devil winds twisted up little dust storms – desert phantoms. For a moment Belmont was obscured and then the breeze died again. Radcliffe looked into the shimmering light. Perhaps the wound was more serious than he had thought.
The dragoon called out: ‘You should have stayed at home, Radcliffe. Your glory days are far behind you. Give it up.’
There was no need to spur the impatient Irish horse this time. It surged forward. Radcliffe raised himself in the stirrups, leaned forward, arm extended, sabre pointed towards his adversary. Belmont grinned and savagely kicked the sides of his blood-flecked horse. The American would be dead in seconds. Raising himself from the saddle like that was a mistake that would cost him his life. He had no defence below his chest. Eager for the kill Belmont urged his horse on. Even if Radcliffe struck downward Belmont knew the strike would take vital seconds too long. An arm’s length from his kill and Belmont blinked in disbelief. Radcliffe was no longer out of the saddle but lying low across the wild horse’s withers. He had lunged below Belmont’s guard.
The horses surged past each other. Radcliffe leaned back in the saddle and put pressure on the reins. The stallion pulled up, then turned under the leg kick and stopped, chest heaving, sweat-streaked flanks shuddering from exertion. Radcliffe watched Belmont, now thirty yards away. The dragoon was upright in the saddle but the reins were loose in his hands. He stared towards Radcliffe and then the bloodied sabre dropped to the ground. Radcliffe eased his horse forward at
the walk. Belmont’s head slumped; his bush hat fell into the pooling blood below his mount. When Radcliffe reached him the dragoon lifted his head to face him. Blood seeped between his teeth as he grinned at Radcliffe.
He tried to say something but Radcliffe’s strike had cut deep into his chest. Radcliffe watched him unemotionally, waited until his head drooped again and then his body fell silently into the dirt.
Moments passed. Radcliffe peered into the heat haze that had settled across the valley’s distant horizon. Ride on or backtrack? If Reece-Sullivan had any sense he would have scouting parties scouring the escape route, which meant that if he backtracked he would come up against them. If he went forward he would ride into the Boers. It had come down to a game of devil’s dice. A moment of regret claimed him. He wished his friend Colonel Baxter were still alive, and that Baxter’s son were with his own boy. Old soldiers watching their sons grow up.
He slid the sabre into its scabbard and patted the horse’s neck. It was a fearless beast and he offered a silent word of gratitude to the Irishman who had gifted it to him. Benjamin Pierce would see Edward home – all he needed to do now was to reach the end of the valley and find his way into the mountains before the British artillery began its bombardment and forced their enemy down into this killing ground. He shook the dizziness from his mind. Blood from his wound now soaked his jacket and was seeping down into the saddle.
He remembered an African proverb – had it been Mhlangana who had told him? It didn’t matter. Only the words stayed lodged in his memory: Human blood is heavy, and the man who has shed it cannot run from it.
Radcliffe swilled water from the canteen round his mouth and spat the sourness away. It was a race worth running. He dug in his heels and eased the reins. He gave the stallion its head and let it run ahead of the dust devil that chased them.