Zulu Hart (11 page)

‘The life of a personal staff officer, eh?’ said George in a jocular tone.

‘Quite.’

As Gossett was about to leave, he caught sight of the revolver on the desk. George had left it out to clean away all traces of the shot he had fired at Thompson; but had not had an opportunity to do so.

‘Where on earth did you get that old pistol?’ asked Gossett.

George flinched. How could he have been so stupid? ‘It was my grandfather’s,’ he replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Does it still work?’

‘I think so.’

‘Mind if I have a look?’ asked Gossett, reaching his hand out to pick the pistol up.

‘Actually I do!’ said George sharply, placing his own hand on the gun. ‘It’s a little fragile.’

Gossett looked surprised.
‘Fair enough.
It’s a Colt, isn’t it? We mostly use Adams and Webleys today,’ he added, tapping his leather holster.
‘Much more reliable.’

That evening, as the ship entered the often stormy seas of the Bay of Biscay, George went to check on Emperor and found him quietly eating his evening ration of hay. His mind at ease, he made his way to the saloon on the main deck, where the first-class passengers were about to sit down to dinner with the captain of the ship, a jovial
gentleman
by the name of Wilson. The civilian passengers included a judge and his wife, the Cape attorney-general, a member of the Legislative Assembly, a Port Elizabeth
businessman
and George; the rest were British officers.

‘I’m afraid you’re slightly outnumbered on this trip,’ said Captain Wilson after George had introduced himself. ‘General Thesiger has commandeered most of the best cabins for himself and his staff.’

George followed the line of Wilson’s gesture to a tall, bearded officer in a blue patrol jacket, of the type favoured by senior officers and staff. Though surrounded by his subordinates, Gossett among them, Thesiger had an air of restless unease, his dark eyes flitting back and forth across the room. ‘I don’t mind a bit,’ said George, his eyes still on Thesiger but warming to Wilson’s tone. ‘I used to be an officer myself.’

‘Did you, by God,’ said Wilson. ‘You hardly look old enough. Who were you with?’

‘The King’s Dragoon Guards.
I resigned after five months.’

‘I won’t say I’m surprised,’ commented Wilson. ‘It can’t be much fun serving under Colonel Harris.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Not personally. But I’ve read plenty about him in the papers. Wasn’t he reprimanded by the Horse Guards for spying on his own officers?’

‘Yes, he was,’ said George. ‘But that’s not the half of it. I could tell you stories about Harris that would make your hair curl.’

‘Do go on,’ said Wilson, but before George could speak they were interrupted by a steward who handed the captain a note. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ exclaimed Wilson, as he finished reading it.

‘Trouble?’ asked George.

‘You could say that. I’ve just received word from another ship about the shooting of a private detective in Plymouth this morning. A young couple were seen fleeing from the scene of the crime towards the commercial docks and we’ve been asked to keep an eye open for them. You joined us at Plymouth. Did you notice anything suspicious?’

‘Not a thing,’ said George, his heart racing. ‘Did the victim survive?’

‘No, he died in hospital. Apparently the gunman was pretty handy with his weapon and the police suspect he has military training.’

‘Do they? Well, that narrows the field a little. Do the police have a description of the couple?’

‘There’s no mention of any description.’

George breathed an inward sigh of relief.

‘Excuse me, Captain Wilson,’ interjected Gossett. ‘Could I borrow young Hart for a moment? I’d like to introduce him to General Thesiger.’

‘Of course,’ said Wilson.

Thesiger was polite enough, asking George his destination, but hardly seemed to listen to the response. Until, that is, George mentioned his brief time in the army. ‘I can’t understand,’ said Thesiger, frowning, his bushy black eyebrows almost knitted, ‘why anyone would leave the army after just five months, Colonel Harris or no. None of my business, of course, but it’s a damn shame.’

George replied that he did not want to go into the details, but that he had been left no option but to resign. What he had seen of the army, he had enjoyed very much.

‘How did you do at Sandhurst?’ asked Thesiger.

‘I passed out first.’

‘So we lose one of our most promising young officers because he doesn’t see eye to eye with his CO! It happens all the time, Hart. The solution is not to resign but to exchange regiments, as I myself did when I left the Rifle Brigade for the Grenadiers.’

‘Quite right, General,’ interrupted the officer to Thesiger’s right, a short, haughty-looking major with impressive whiskers. ‘The only honourable way to leave the service is in a coffin or a bathchair.’

‘See, Hart,’ said Thesiger, gesturing towards the officer who had spoken, ‘even my military secretary, Major Crealock, agrees with me on this point, and that doesn’t happen often.’

George ignored Crealock’s put-down. ‘As I said before, General, it was out of my hands.’

‘So you say. I wish you luck with your ventures in Africa, whatever they may be. We soldiers have the small matter of a war to attend to.’

Before George could respond, the gong was rung for dinner.

The meal passed slowly for George, stuck as he was between a judge’s humourless wife and a Natal trader called Laband who was convinced that the solution to South Africa’s woes was to extend white rule throughout the region. ‘Mark my words,’ he said for the umpteenth time, ‘a confederation of white colonies is the only way.’

George was too distracted by the news of Thompson’s death, and the subsequent manhunt, to do anything more than nod vaguely in agreement. He was desperate to talk to Lucy, but felt he had to wait at least until the pudding course had been served before he could make his excuses. Then he hurried down the steel staircase to the deck that held the second-class cabins and, having checked he was not being observed, knocked on Lucy’s door.

‘Who is it?’

‘George.’

The door opened to reveal Lucy in a nightdress, her curly chestnut hair loose on her shoulders. ‘Thank God you’ve come. I can’t get the memory of that poor wounded man out of my head.’

George raised a finger to his lips and shooed her back into the cabin. ‘I know how you feel. But you must be careful what you say because that poor wounded man is now dead.’

‘How can you be sure?’

George repeated what Captain Wilson had told him. ‘Luckily it was still dark,’ he added, ‘so they don’t know what we look like.’

‘But they know we’re a couple and that we made for the docks,’ said a wide-eyed Lucy. ‘Thank God you gave me money to buy my own ticket. If we’d gone in to the ticket office together we’d certainly have been caught.’

‘Yes, so from now on we must avoid each other’s company as much as possible. They’re looking for a couple. We must make it seem like we’ve never met.’

‘I’m scared, George,’ said Lucy, ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

George noticed her dilated pupils. Of course, he thought, she’s also in shock: first the attempted rape, then the shooting. It would take time for both of them to recover, but now
was
not the moment to take risks. ‘I’d like to stay but I can’t,’ he said tenderly. ‘Imagine if I was seen leaving your cabin in the morning. I’ll call again as soon as it’s safe to do so.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Soon.’

Back in his own cabin, George spent a fitful night regretting his caution. He lay awake for hours, tormented by images of the dying man gasping like a fish on a block; and when he finally did get to sleep he dreamt of Lucy, her body naked, her hair fanned out on the pillow beneath her.

George woke with a start. It was 6.30 a.m. and time to check on Emperor. On his way down to the horsedeck, he heard raised voices. He entered an open hatchway to investigate and found himself in a dark, cavernous room, festooned with hammocks and packs. The room was deserted but for three men to the left of the hatchway. Two of them had their backs to George and were pinning the other man up against the bulkhead, their spare hands raised in fists. Their victim, fair- haired and a good six inches taller than either, looked strangely unconcerned.

‘What’s going on here?’ said George in his best parade- ground voice.

The shorter of the aggressors glanced round, decided George was not an officer, and replied, ‘It’s not your concern, so bugger off.’

George’s anger flared. ‘Well, I’m about to make it my concern. Now let him
go
or I’ll—’

‘You’ll what?’ said the same soldier, a dark wiry man with a distinctive Welsh accent.

George took a step forward and planted a right hook into the soldier’s stomach, causing him to double up in pain.

‘Now salute, damn you,’ said George, ‘or is that no longer the fashion in the Twenty-Fourth?’ Though all three were wearing the anonymous sea kit of blue serge issued to soldiers in transit, he had spotted the tell-tale ‘24’ badge on their woollen caps.

Both aggressors snapped to attention and saluted, their victim following suit but with less precision. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said the soldier he had punched. ‘I didn’t know you
was
an officer, like.’

George ignored him, addressing the tall soldier instead. ‘Why were they threatening you?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir,’ said the soldier softly, with only a hint of a Welsh lilt.

‘Would you not? Well, we’ll see about that. Come with me!’ George had enough experience of ordinary soldiers to know they never blabbed. His question had put the tall man in an impossible position and he regretted it at once. Far better, he knew, to quiz him in private, so George made his way down to the horsedeck, the tall soldier in his wake.

There was no sign of Pickering and, from force of habit, George entered Emperor’s stall and took up a body brush and a currycomb. Emperor’s coat was immaculate, and hardly needed grooming, but George knew that a good rub-down would keep his muscles warm.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the soldier, as he ran the brush in rhythmic strokes from Emperor’s forelock to his withers, removing the accumulated hair with the currycomb.

‘Private Thomas, sir.’

‘Not your rank, your Christian name.’

‘Owen, sir.’

‘And don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer.’

‘But you said—’

George interjected. ‘I simply asked whether it was still the fashion in your regiment to salute. I at no time declared
myself
an officer.’

‘You implied—’

‘That I may have done, it’s true.’ Having finished brushing Emperor’s neck, George moved on to his flank. ‘What about you? I’d hazard we’re close in age, so you can’t have been in the army long.’

‘I’m nineteen years and took the shilling last September.’

George smiled at the coincidence, for he had joined his regiment that very month. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Monmouthshire.’

‘I know Monmouthshire. Have you heard of the Morgans of Tredegar Park? They own a colliery.’

‘I have, sir. I hail from Raglan, but some of my
cousins
work in the Tredegar colliery. They say old Mr Morgan is a fair employer.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. His son Jake is a friend of mine. He’s an officer in the Second Battalion of the Twenty-Fourth. Are you bound for the First or Second Battalion?’

‘The Second.’

‘Well, who knows, you may be assigned to his company.’

‘That I may,’ said Thomas.

George gestured with his head towards the deck above. ‘So what was that all about?’

‘Oh, nothing, a bit of harmless chat.
They’re the Davies brothers from Trewern, and difficult to tell apart, so I call them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They aren’t amused.’

‘I’m sure they aren’t. If you don’t mind me saying so, Thomas, you don’t strike me as a typical army recruit. You seem far too sensible.’

Thomas grinned. ‘All thanks to my mam. She kept me at school when my pa wanted me to work with him in the fields.’

‘So you can read and write?’

‘That I can.’

‘Well, that’s more than most of the NCOs in the King’s Dragoon Guards can manage. So why enlist? It can’t be for the ten shillings a week. You could do better than that.’

‘No, it’s not for the money. I enlisted for adventure. My mam hoped I’d become a schoolteacher, but I want to see the world.’

‘As good a reason as any, I suppose. But how do you put up with barrack-room life?’

‘It’s not too bad, and certainly no worse than growing up in a big family. I’m one of ten and had to share a bed with three brothers. In the army I get my own bed, clean sheets once a month and a new straw mattress every quarter. And I get enough to eat, as well, though bread and meat can get monotonous, and we have to pay for our vegetables.’