The Last Horseman by David Gilman Read Free Book Online Page B

apology.’
    ‘I’ve served here before and rumour was that your friend sired a bastard son then married the Irish whore. Least, that’s how I heard it,’ Taylor said evenly.
    One of the orderlies eased his way past Pierce, who reached out and took a glass of Irish whiskey. He swallowed it down.
    ‘Do you fight, Captain Taylor?’ he asked.
    ‘Fight?’ Taylor queried, but then quickly understood. ‘I’m a British officer, I don’t brawl like a common soldier.’ Without thinking he glanced at Belmont, foolishly letting his true feelings be seen.
    Pierce peeled off his white dress gloves. ‘Well, I’m a retired captain in the United States Army and a common soldier taught me how to brawl.’
    *
    Private Flynn had won his sixpence when a mud-splattered Lieutenant Baxter had returned from his cross-country race with Edward. The illicitly distilled poteen he’d purchased could strip the polish from a saddle but gave Flynn a drunken slumber on this night of the officers’ party. He was off duty and the bottle and the warm straw bedding allowed him dreams of being someplace else. And then voices penetrated the joy of a life without orders, and brought him groggily back to reality. He rolled out of his blanket in one of the empty stalls. He grabbed the pitchfork, but soon realized when he blearily peeped through the cracks in the slatted wood that he wouldn’t need it. He saw three cavalry officers carrying lanterns, with a tall broad-shouldered black man who was pulling off his blue uniform coat. Within moments Captain Taylor and this man were stripped down to undershirt and braces. Flynn stayed silent. Officers measuring up against each other was a sight he’d never witnessed before, and he’d seen plenty of bar-room brawls in his time. Recounting this spectacle would be worth a few jars of ale in any public house or canteen.
    Taylor would be no pushover but Pierce’s bulky frame helped absorb the quick blows that Taylor delivered. He jabbed like a boxer and swung low, head down, shoulders rounded, like a fairground pugilist. He felt his fists connect with an old man’s body that was still packed with layered muscle beneath his bulk. He was quicker on his feet and caught Pierce two stinging blows on the forehead, but the old man didn’t even flinch, simply ducked and weaved his shoulders and head, his eyes watching, anticipating Taylor’s style and attack.
    ‘I boxed for my house, old man,’ said Taylor, sensing he already had the better of Pierce.
    It was only a brief moment of victory. Pierce snapped out a straight left. Short and sharp, the jab bloodied Taylor’s nose, who fell back into the arms of his cronies. There may have been a twenty years’ age disadvantage but Pierce had fought tougher men than him. Belmont, cheroot clamped between his teeth, heaved Taylor back into the fight. ‘Come on, Freddie, low and hard, man. He’ll go down. Come on now!’
    Taylor ignored the pain and paced himself carefully, prowling around his opponent, throwing a punch, feeling it blocked and then the impact of Pierce’s fist slamming into his shoulder, a near miss from his jaw. His body crashed against the stable wall, dislodging bridles from their hooks. Pain streaked across his chest and into his shoulder and the horse snaffles he had slammed his head against stung him into an angry, ill-considered lunge. With two more blows Taylor was on one knee, spitting blood. Horses whinnied, Marsh stepped forward ready to strike Pierce but Belmont grabbed him and held him back. Taylor was back on his feet and landed two fast strikes; one breaking skin on Pierce’s cheek. Belmont and Marsh cried out encouragement, but the black man had barely registered the blow. Pierce recovered and slammed an uppercut into Taylor’s midriff. It was a hard punch into trained muscle, and Taylor took it well, but he faltered, his lungs gasping for air. Then Pierce put him down with a right cross.
    ‘The fuzzy-wuzzies send their regards,’