Pierce said as Taylor struggled to get to his knees.
*
The cold air chilled the sentries who stood at their posts, limbs stiff, wind stinging their eyes and muffling any sound made by the dozen or more men who had filtered from the night into the streets around the barracks. The anticipated fog had been blown away from the estuary by the onshore wind but the rain’s mist gave confidence to those who crept into the night to kill. One of the sentries stamped his feet, completed his turn at the corner of the wall and walked back along the perimeter of his assigned route. He’d be glad to get to the warmth of Africa. The garrison’s high walls offered little respite from the rain that swirled on the wind – if anything it seemed to funnel it more fiercely down the wheel-rutted street. He guessed he had less than an hour until he was relieved and then, while the officers supped their brandy and smoked their cigars, he would sip a beef broth and pack a welcome pipe with rough-cut tobacco that caught the throat and cleared the nostrils.
One of the streetlights at the end of his post flickered, then its rainbow glow in the mist snuffed out. That must be the storm. He hoped the duty sergeant had made sure they had enough oil for their lamps in the guardroom. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, soaked greatcoat and did not hear the footsteps approaching downwind. He blinked the rain from his eyes and sudden light shattered his vision: the last moment of his life as Pat Malone’s knife plunged into his neck. Now, as others scurried from the alleyways, they had gained another weapon. There was no need to move the dead soldier’s body; the attack would soon be launched. And they knew the guard relief was still an hour away.
*
Mulraney called across to the other sentry who shared his post at the main gate. ‘Jimmy, did you hear that? There’s someone out there scuttling around.’
The other man gazed into the half-light. He shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’
‘There’s someone out there, I’m telling you,’ Mulraney insisted, and edged away from his post, his rifle brought down to the ready.
‘Jesus, Mulraney! Get your arse back here!’ the other sentry hissed. But Mulraney was already ten paces from where he should have been.
And then the shadows moved.
Mulraney challenged the running figures but the only response was the rising clatter of boots running across cobbles. ‘Call out the guard!’ he cried to the other sentry. Pat Malone had brought a half-dozen men from the other side of the street and used the others to hold the sentries’ attention. Before the guard could do as Mulraney ordered one of Malone’s men clubbed him down with a pick handle as another levelled a pistol at Mulraney. But Mulraney smashed it from his hand, calling out for help. He rammed the rifle’s stock into one of his attackers and the metal-edged butt of his Lee–Enfield shattered bone. His fingers gripped the cocking lever, but before a cartridge could be loaded into the breech another man struck him from behind. Mulraney tumbled on to the cobbles.
Cavan Leahy placed the dynamite against the gates and as the other men turned to watch the burning fuse Mulraney scrambled to his feet, picked up his rifle, rammed the bolt action back and forth, then his finger found the trigger.
*
Belmont and Marsh had grabbed Pierce’s arms and were too strong for Pierce to throw off. They shouted at Taylor: ‘Get up! Come on, man!’
Taylor stood and looked at the helpless Pierce; then he landed two heavy blows into his stomach. Pierce collapsed on to his knees, doubled in pain. Marsh punched down into Pierce’s face, sending him sprawling, and then Taylor kicked hard as Pierce tried to protect himself from the flurry of blows.
‘Learn to know your place, nigger,’ Taylor spat at him. ‘Next time I’ll break your neck.’
Pierce couldn’t move. He was curled up, his brain trying to isolate the agony so he could get to his feet.
*
The cold air chilled the sentries who stood at their posts, limbs stiff, wind stinging their eyes and muffling any sound made by the dozen or more men who had filtered from the night into the streets around the barracks. The anticipated fog had been blown away from the estuary by the onshore wind but the rain’s mist gave confidence to those who crept into the night to kill. One of the sentries stamped his feet, completed his turn at the corner of the wall and walked back along the perimeter of his assigned route. He’d be glad to get to the warmth of Africa. The garrison’s high walls offered little respite from the rain that swirled on the wind – if anything it seemed to funnel it more fiercely down the wheel-rutted street. He guessed he had less than an hour until he was relieved and then, while the officers supped their brandy and smoked their cigars, he would sip a beef broth and pack a welcome pipe with rough-cut tobacco that caught the throat and cleared the nostrils.
One of the streetlights at the end of his post flickered, then its rainbow glow in the mist snuffed out. That must be the storm. He hoped the duty sergeant had made sure they had enough oil for their lamps in the guardroom. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, soaked greatcoat and did not hear the footsteps approaching downwind. He blinked the rain from his eyes and sudden light shattered his vision: the last moment of his life as Pat Malone’s knife plunged into his neck. Now, as others scurried from the alleyways, they had gained another weapon. There was no need to move the dead soldier’s body; the attack would soon be launched. And they knew the guard relief was still an hour away.
*
Mulraney called across to the other sentry who shared his post at the main gate. ‘Jimmy, did you hear that? There’s someone out there scuttling around.’
The other man gazed into the half-light. He shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’
‘There’s someone out there, I’m telling you,’ Mulraney insisted, and edged away from his post, his rifle brought down to the ready.
‘Jesus, Mulraney! Get your arse back here!’ the other sentry hissed. But Mulraney was already ten paces from where he should have been.
And then the shadows moved.
Mulraney challenged the running figures but the only response was the rising clatter of boots running across cobbles. ‘Call out the guard!’ he cried to the other sentry. Pat Malone had brought a half-dozen men from the other side of the street and used the others to hold the sentries’ attention. Before the guard could do as Mulraney ordered one of Malone’s men clubbed him down with a pick handle as another levelled a pistol at Mulraney. But Mulraney smashed it from his hand, calling out for help. He rammed the rifle’s stock into one of his attackers and the metal-edged butt of his Lee–Enfield shattered bone. His fingers gripped the cocking lever, but before a cartridge could be loaded into the breech another man struck him from behind. Mulraney tumbled on to the cobbles.
Cavan Leahy placed the dynamite against the gates and as the other men turned to watch the burning fuse Mulraney scrambled to his feet, picked up his rifle, rammed the bolt action back and forth, then his finger found the trigger.
*
Belmont and Marsh had grabbed Pierce’s arms and were too strong for Pierce to throw off. They shouted at Taylor: ‘Get up! Come on, man!’
Taylor stood and looked at the helpless Pierce; then he landed two heavy blows into his stomach. Pierce collapsed on to his knees, doubled in pain. Marsh punched down into Pierce’s face, sending him sprawling, and then Taylor kicked hard as Pierce tried to protect himself from the flurry of blows.
‘Learn to know your place, nigger,’ Taylor spat at him. ‘Next time I’ll break your neck.’
Pierce couldn’t move. He was curled up, his brain trying to isolate the agony so he could get to his feet.
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