The Last Horseman Read Free Page A

embedded in his soldiers created loyalty that reflected a lifetime of fair treatment. His concern for his troops’ welfare had engendered respect in return, and a willingness to follow him into battle, often against savage odds. It was a foolish recruit who took the man’s slight physique as an indication of his character. Baxter would punish offenders as strictly as he would show compassion for genuine hardship, which is why Radcliffe and Baxter found common ground and shared their distaste for useless loss of life. Those who knew war despised it for what it was. But such sentiments could blight an officer’s career, which was, perhaps, why the forty-eight-year-old Baxter had remained a lieutenant colonel and had neither found favour from the general staff nor been invited to join them. Not, Radcliffe thought, that his friend would wish to do so. Field officers were a breed unto themselves.
    The two men were deep in conversation and their somewhat furtive glance towards him made Radcliffe wonder if he was intruding on a personal exchange. A stable lad ran forward and took Radcliffe’s reins. He slipped a coin into the boy’s grubby hand.
    ‘Mr Radcliffe, you’ll not be spoiling my lads again, I trust. They’ll be pressing me for higher wages,’ Kingsley said. What-ever they had been discussing had been quickly put aside on Radcliffe’s approach.
    Radcliffe shook Kingsley’s extended hand, and then took his friend’s. ‘Kingsley. Alex. I’m sorry I’m late.’
    Kingsley’s skin was as rough as a farrier’s file and a half-closed eye showed the scar from eyebrow to cheekbone that some said came from a knife fight in his youth. Others knew, or so they claimed, that it was the result of a drunken assault on a prostitute who broke a chamber pot across his head and laid him low, so that he dashed his head on the whore’s metal bed frame. Either way it gave the big man an appearance of someone who could cause violence – despite all his lilting charm.
    ‘We Irish landowners like to keep in step with our English cousins. Modest wages keep a man temperate in his desires.’
    ‘But intemperate in his despair,’ Radcliffe answered.
    ‘Quite so, quite so. Now, you’ll be staying and having a drink when the colonel here and I have completed the business at hand?’
    ‘No, thank you. I’ve work to do,’ replied Radcliffe.
    Kingsley grunted. ‘One of the Fenian bastards was hanged last night then? Did he squeal? Most of those murdering scum do when it comes to it. They shit their pants and cry for their mothers.’
    ‘You think there’s any dignity in dying like that?’ challenged Radcliffe.
    ‘Ah, come on now, you’ve been a soldier, we’re all meat on bone. No one dies with dignity. Better for us all if we rid society of murderous scum and be done with it.’
    Radcliffe and Baxter exchanged a brief glance. Was it worth engaging the bluff Irishman in argument?
    Kingsley hesitated a moment and then added thoughtfully, ‘And this other fella they’re hanging, O’Hagan, wouldn’t be much older than your own son, would he?’
    ‘I have made an appeal for clemency,’ Radcliffe told him.
    ‘There’s a chance the murdering little shite will get off?’
    ‘He’s a boy,’ said Radcliffe.
    ‘Didn’t a decent man die at their hands!’ Kingsley blustered; then he turned and spat on to the cobbles.
    ‘He’s a boy,’ Radcliffe repeated evenly.
    Baxter could see the rancour would soon escalate and interrupted. ‘Joseph, as you know I want to buy horses for the campaign. I’ve not yet made any decisions, but this one seems to be a beauty,’ he said, turning to the horse.
    Most of the British horses were supplied by the Irish and this gelding looked to be a fine example. Radcliffe nodded to the groom, who walked the horse around the yard. Radcliffe’s eyes studied the horse’s gait and watched as it shifted its weight.
    ‘He’s taken a fall at some time; he’ll weaken under you, Alex.’
    ‘And