Hart of Empire (2010) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Hart of Empire

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Author's Note

  Hart of Empire

  Saul David

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright (c) Saul David 2010

  The right of Saul David to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted

  by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means

  without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and

  without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Epub ISBN 9781848947306

  Book ISBN 9780340953655

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my darling Tamar

  Preface

  Copy of an undated letter given to the eighteen-year-old George Hart in the autumn of 1877 by Josiah Ward of Ward & Mills, a London firm of Solicitors-at-Law, shortly before George joined the 1st King's Dragoon Guards as a young officer fresh from Sandhurst:

  To my son George Arthur Hart, Esq.,

  To encourage you in your early military career, I have put aside the sum of PS30,000. But it will only be made over to you, in the amounts mentioned, if you manage to comply with the following conditions before your twenty-eighth birthday, a lapse of ten years:

  1. Marry respectably, that is to a lady of gentle birth - PS5,000.

  2. Reach the substantive rank of lieutenant colonel in the British Army - PS5,000.

  3. Be awarded the Victoria Cross - PS10,000.

  If you comply with all three conditions within the time allotted, you will receive an additional sum of PS10,000. This money is in the safekeeping of my solicitor, Josiah Ward of Ward & Mills, and will be disbursed by him once reasonable proofs of compliance have been provided.

  Chapter 1

  Haymarket, London, late spring 1879

  'Thirty-three black!' announced the croupier.

  George shook his head slowly, scarcely able to believe his luck. He preferred gambling at cards but neither baccarat nor chemin-de-fer had been kind to him today and he had switched in desperation to roulette, placing his last fifteen pounds of chips on black. It had won and, for want of a better strategy, he had bet on the same colour for five more spins, each time doubling his money, so that with this latest success, he now had the princely sum of PS960. One more win would give him the two thousand or so that he desperately needed. He took another gulp of whisky and decided to let the money ride. All or nothing.

  But something in his drink-fuddled brain told him it couldn't be black again, not seven times in a row, though he knew the odds on each new bet were the same for either colour. At the last moment, as the croupier was about to spin the wheel, he leant forward and moved all his chips to red. Then he closed his eyes and prayed.

  As the ball was released, George glanced nervously round the dingy gambling den, its candelabra casting ghostly shadows over the few remaining players. He was alone at his table but for the croupier, a small, wiry man with greasy hair and a lopsided bow-tie, who was staring at the wheel as if his life depended upon it. Maybe it did, because his brow glistened with beads of sweat and his hands were gripping the table so tightly that the knuckles were white.

  George looked back at the wheel and, almost imperceptibly, the croupier moved his right thumb below the level of the table, felt for a small button and pressed it. Seconds later the ball ran out of momentum and fell into the bed of the wheel, rattling along the numbers before finally coming to rest.

  'Zero green,' announced the croupier, with as straight a face as he could muster, before raking George's neat pile of chips from the red diamond at the side of the baize.

  Oh, my God, thought George. It's fallen into the only number I didn't consider, the one that gives the house its advantage. But even as his racing heart and clammy hands registered the consequences, he noticed the visibly relieved croupier grinning at someone behind him. He swung round to see the rotund proprietor, Mr Milton Samuels, advancing towards him.

  'So sorry for your loss, Captain Hart,' said Samuels, thumbs crooked in his bright checked waistcoat. 'You win some . . .'

  George's eyes narrowed. He had lost money before, of course, but Samuels had never felt the need to console him. Something was wrong. He looked from boss to employee, and back again, and felt sure he had been cheated. 'Don't give me that flannel, Samuels,' he said, a hard edge to his voice. 'You're not sorry at all. And why would you be when you've just fleeced me of everything I own?'

  'Now, now, Captain Hart, there's no need for that.'

  'Isn't there?' said George, his voice rising. 'So, you keep your temper when you've been rooked, do you?'

  The room had fallen silent, all eyes on the altercation. Samuels glanced beyond George to the stairs. 'I assure you, sir, that nothing untoward--'

  'I saw your croupier gripping the side of the table and suspect you may have fitted some mechanical device to ensure the ball landed on green.'

  George strode towards the croupier's end of the table, intent on discovering the truth, but Samuels intercepted him, his arms outstretched. 'I don't want no trouble, Captain Hart, so if you leave quietly we'll say no more about it.'

  'I shall go nowhere without my money.'

  'That right, Cap'n?' said a new voice, behind him. Before George could turn he felt an iron-like grip on his throat as an arm pinned him from behind. The more he struggled, the more the pressure increased. He could feel blood pounding in his ears and knew he was close to blacking out. But then the pressure on his throat eased a little and, coughing and spluttering, he regained his senses.

  'Like I was saying,' snarled Samuels, 'I don't want no trouble but you would insist. All right, Paddy, throw him out.'

  George felt as helpless as a rag doll as he was dragged backwards up the stairs, through the entrance and propelled on to the pavement, the boisterous Haymarket crowd parting for yet another drunk. Furious, he scrambled to his feet and advanced towards O'Reilly, the huge doorman who had thrown him out and was now standing coolly on the steps, his arms crossed. 'Don't be a fool, Cap'n. I'll make mincemeat of you, so I will, and it'd be a shame to damage that handsome figurehead of yours.'

  George knew he was no match for the former prize-fighter, and was likely to receive a thrashing, but he was so angry and drunk he didn't care. He swung a right hook that missed as the battle-scarred Irishman swayed out of range
, moving his large frame with the speed and grace of a cat. Overbalancing, George stumbled forward into a hammer of a counter-punch, O'Reilly's right fist slamming into his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs and dropping him to his knees. He had never been hit so hard.

  'You won't get away with this,' he said, gasping for breath. But he knew that they would, for he could hardly complain to the police about an illegal gambling den.

  'Go home and sober up, Cap'n, though I'll wager home for you is far from these shores.'

  Normally such an insulting reference to his dark skin, which made him look more southern Mediterranean than British, would have provoked a violent response. But the blow George had received had knocked much of the fight out of him and, as he crouched on the pavement, he realized he had only himself to blame for his humiliation. He rose to his feet, dusted himself down and, with a last scornful glance at O'Reilly, set off in the direction of his hotel in Knightsbridge. It was a fair distance and he would normally have hailed a cab but he had decided to walk to save money and to clear his head.

  Halfway down Piccadilly - oblivious of the fashionable swells in their frock coats, checked waistcoats and tight blue trousers, and the ladies in dolman-style cloaks and narrow-brimmed bonnets - he pulled out his mother's letter and read it a second time.

  17 Connaught Square

  Dublin

  Dearest George,

  It was wonderful to have you to myself again for those few short weeks of your convalescence, and to hear all your news. I am so proud that your gallantry in South Africa has been rewarded with a regular commission, and that you now have a second chance to make something of your military career.

  I am grateful for the PS500 you sent on your return to England. I have never been good with money, and since your father stopped paying your allowance it has been a constant struggle to keep my creditors at bay. In truth the PS500 was quickly eaten up by debts and I have been forced to resort to moneylenders. But their interest is exorbitant and they have warned me that if I do not pay the PS2,000 I shall owe by January next year they will force me to sell the house. I hate to burden you with this, my darling, particularly after your recent generosity, but I don't know where else to turn.

  Your loving mother,

  Emma

  George folded the letter and groaned. He knew he had been a fool to try to raise the money his mother needed by gambling, but what was the alternative? After having kitted himself out with his new regimental uniform he had been left with barely two hundred pounds. Now, thanks to his idiocy, that money was almost gone and tomorrow he would return to South Africa to join his new regiment. It was almost a relief.

  He set off at an unsteady walk and, twenty minutes later, was in sight of his hotel on Queen's Gate when he registered footsteps behind him. They grew gradually louder, and as the pedestrian caught up, George moved aside to let him pass. Instead he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  'What do you--' As he turned, George froze in mid-sentence. There, standing before him in a top hat and cape, was a ghost. The ghost of a man he had killed in a fight the year before: the same huge frame, clothes and blotchy red face. It couldn't be, yet he seemed real enough in the flickering light from a nearby gas lamp. 'It can't be . . .' he whispered. 'You're dead.'

  'Not me,' snarled the man, 'my brother Henry. I'm Bob Thompson.'

  'You're his brother?' George was aghast.

  'Yes. And I'm here to see you pay.'

  George looked down at the man's hands, expecting to see a weapon. They were bunched into fists. 'Now just a minute. I can understand your anger, but your brother drew a sword on me. I had to defend myself.'

  'That's not what you told the police. They said they were about to arrest you when a lady gave you an alibi. And yet you've just admitted to me that you did kill my brother.'

  A voice in George's head was screaming at him to stop incriminating himself and say no more, but perhaps because of the drink, or the shock, or perhaps because in truth he was haunted every day by his distress at having killed a man and run from the fact, he spoke again: 'It was self-defence, I swear.'

  'Then why not swear to the police, and let a jury decide?'

  'Because I cannot believe I'll receive a fair trial. I fought your brother because he was trying to apprehend a young girl I was travelling with. She had just left the employment of my former commanding officer, Colonel Harris, who wanted her back. But she feared he would ravish her - he had tried once before, which was why she left.'

  A shadow passed over the big man's face. 'So my brother was acting on Harris's orders?'

  'Exactly.'

  'And you say he drew a sword on you?'

  'A sword-stick, to be exact.'

  Thompson swore. 'John always were a bully, quick to use his fists. But he never killed no one, not to my knowledge.'

  'Well, he almost killed me. As I say, he left me no alternative.'

  'I don't believe you,' said Thompson, shaking his head. 'I reckon you were taking a beating and you pulled a pistol.'

  'That was not how it was. He drew his weapon first. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't let us go. So I told the girl to run, which was when your brother tried to stab me. I shot him in self-defence.'

  'So you keep saying, but old Bob can't speak for himself, can he?'

  'No.'

  'Which is why I'm asking you nicely, Captain Hart, to hand yourself in. Our poor old mother won't rest until she knows justice has been done.'

  'I'm sorry for her, I truly am. But no jury influenced by Harris will believe I was justified in using a pistol against a sword-stick, though I know I was. If I admit to killing your brother I'll swing, and I don't deserve that.'

  'And that's your final answer?'

  'It is.'

  'You bloody coward.' Thompson lurched forward, swinging a left-handed haymaker at the side of George's head.

  But George, though drunk, was the nimbler of the two, easily slipping the punch and countering with one of his own, a straight right that caught Thompson flush on the jaw with a crack that echoed down the empty street. It was a blow made all the more potent by the humiliation he had already suffered at the gambling den, and Thompson reaped the consequences. He staggered and fell backwards into a sitting position, his eyes glazed.

  'Like your brother, you left me no choice,' said George. Suddenly sober, he walked briskly away.

  Chapter 2

  George's heart was still pounding as he entered the lobby of his small, discreet hotel at the bottom of Queen's Gate. It had been an evening to forget and he wished he was already on the ship to South Africa.

  'Room thirty-two. Any messages?' he asked, more out of habit than expectation.

  'Yes, sir,' said the tail-coated concierge, handing over his key and a thick white envelope. 'This came for you an hour ago.'

  Recognizing at once the crest of the Commander-in-Chief, George tore open the letter and read:

  The Horse Guards

  Pall Mall

  My dear Captain Hart

  There is a matter of some urgency I would like to discuss with you this evening at my private residence, 6 Queen Street, Mayfair. Would you be so good as to arrive no later than half past nine? I look forward to renewing our acquaintance then.

  I am, etc.

  George Cambridge, Field Marshal

  George pulled out his pocket-watch and cursed. It was ten minutes past the hour, which gave him just twenty minutes to change his clothes, hail a cab and get to the Commander-in-Chief's house in Mayfair. He grabbed his room key and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  A quarter of an hour later George's cab was snarled in traffic on Piccadilly, a swearing, tangled mass of horse-riders, private carriages and hansoms jostling for position. The evening was going from bad to worse. 'How much longer?' he asked the driver, perched high above him.

  'Don't worry, sir,' shouted the cabbie, as he steered his horse left off Piccadilly into Half Moon Street. 'Almost there.'

 
; A couple of minutes later the cab drew up outside a substantial but far from palatial Georgian townhouse, the home of HRH the Duke of Cambridge and his morganatic wife, the former actress Mrs FitzGeorge. George had not heard from the duke since their interview two months earlier, and could only assume there were some last-minute instructions or messages the War Office wanted him to convey to South Africa. But why not summon him to Pall Mall, as before? Why ask a lowly captain to his private residence? George was intrigued and not a little flattered.

  He was also hoping to meet Mrs FitzGeorge, who was, like his mother, a famous beauty of the stage; she was said to have secretly - and illegally - married the duke after she had had three illegitimate sons by him. They had since had another and all four were serving officers, known by the royal suffix 'Fitz', signifying bastard. Because of her humble origins as the daughter of a Bow Street printer, Mrs FitzGeorge had neither been accepted by society nor acknowledged by the Queen, the duke's first cousin.

  George Hart himself occupied an ambivalent position in the British class system: dark-skinned and illegitimate, he had been sent to Harrow and Sandhurst and was now masquerading as an officer and a gentleman. He assumed they would have much in common.

  The door was opened by a florid-faced butler who, having taken George's hat and coat, led him upstairs to the first-floor drawing room. 'Captain George Hart,' he announced.

  'At last,' said a voice George recognised as the duke's. 'Show him in.'

  The room contained three men in evening dress. The duke was standing by the empty fireplace, a portly figure with bald pate and white mutton-chop whiskers. Seated on a sofa to his left was a younger man George did not know, also bald but with a full beard and pince-nez hanging from his neck. Opposite him, on a second sofa, he saw the unmistakable figure of Lord Beaconsfield, the Prime Minister, with his thin, pinched face, prominent nose and goatee beard.