Zulu Hart Read online

  George rose from his dressing table and peered at himself in the full-length mirror. His evening-dress suit had cost him a sizeable portion of his private allowance, but even he had to admit he looked well in it. It helped that he was over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, a natural clothes- horse. It helped, too, that his black tailcoat was of the finest twilled cashmere, with a low velvet collar and silk lapels. As he adjusted his white bow tie, he regretted again the inadequacy of his thin black moustache. He had only been shaving for a year, and his bristles were not yet thick enough to produce the necessary growth. The only other flaw in his classically handsome face, with its large hazel eyes and even white teeth, was a slightly crooked nose, the legacy of another fight. But that was no bad thing, he thought, as it gave his fresh-faced looks a mildly piratical air.

  A knock on the door brought colour to his cheeks, as if his self-satisfied contemplation had been witnessed. 'Come in!' he said.

  It was Manners, the old family retainer who had served his grandfather. 'Begging your pardon, Master George, but your mother would like to speak to you before you go down.'

  George sighed. The guests would be here soon. Couldn't it wait?

  'All right, Manners, I'll be down presently, and less of the "Master George", if you please. I'm eighteen and a commissioned officer in the British Army. "Mr Hart" will suffice.'

  Manners raised his eyebrows. 'As you wish, Master . . . um . . . Mr Hart.'

  George heard the door close and took a moment to try and smooth the unruly black curls at his temples; but no amount of water, patted on with his fingers, seemed to do the trick. He gave up and followed Manners down to his mother's sitting room on the second floor, entering without knocking.

  His mother was seated on the sofa in quiet contemplation. As he bent down to embrace her, George marvelled again at her ageless beauty. Clad in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder blue velvet gown, complete with train and elaborate overskirt, she seemed to him more striking than ever. Yet her expression was pained, as if she had something unpleasant to say. 'What is it, Mother?' he asked.

  'Sit down, Georgie,' she said, patting the sofa beside her. 'Now that you're eighteen, there's something I must tell you. Before I do, I want you to know that the day you were presented with the sword at Sandhurst was the proudest of my life. I never wanted you to join the army, but I made a promise years ago, and I've stood by it.'

  'What promise and to whom?'

  'To your father. Darling, what I'm about to tell you will come as quite a shock. Try not to be angry with me.'

  'I could never be angry with you, Mother. Just tell me.'

  She took a deep breath. 'You know I've always told you that your father and I never married and that he died at sea. Well, the first part is true, but not the second. He's very much alive.'

  George's jaw dropped. 'Are you being serious? My father alive Why would you keep this from me?'

  'I had my reasons, darling, please believe me.'

  'What reasons?'

  'He made me promise, shortly after your birth, that in return for his anonymity I would receive money for your upkeep and, when the time came, he would arrange for you to become an officer in a cavalry regiment. I kept that promise. If I had not, he would have cut us off without a penny. Who do you think paid for your education?'

  'You, of course: you're a famous actress.'

  'I was a famous actress, Georgie, but not any more. I'm thirty-six, for goodness' sake, and well past my prime. I haven't played a leading role for more than three years. It's your father's money that's been keeping us afloat, but that stops on your eighteenth birthday - today. From now on we're on our own.'

  'Mother, stop!' said George raising his hands, palms outwards. 'This is too much to take in. You say I have a father who refuses to acknowledge me. Why? What sort of man abandons his infant son?'

  'The sort that's married,' sighed his mother.

  'Mother. I despair of your judgement sometimes.'

  'That's not fair. I've had lovers, and have never denied it, but my priority has always been you. I'm sorry I lied about your father, but I really had no option. I've always wanted the best for you, and only he could provide it.'

  'Have you any idea, Mother, how hard it was for me at Harrow and Sandhurst? The fatherless bastard with a touch of the tarbrush, that's what they called me. Now you tell me my father is alive but won't see me. That's almost worse. But it explains one thing that's been bothering me: why a crack regiment like the KDG would accept a social misfit like me. My father must be a man of considerable influence.'

  'He is. I can't say any more than that. If it had been up to me you would never have known of his existence. But there's another reason why I let you become a soldier, .md why I'm telling you now. It's because your father held out the promise of a sizeable legacy if you made a name for yourself. I don't know the details, but if you want to find out what they are, I suggest you read this.' She handed him a small cream envelope she had been holding. 'It arrived this morning.'

  The envelope was addressed to 'George Arthur Hart, Esq.' broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of writing paper. It came from a firm of solicitors in the City of London that George had never heard of and its message was brief:

  Dear sir,

  My client, who has chosen to remain anonymous, has assigned you a considerable sum of money. Before any of his money can be made over to you, you must fulfil certain ( conditions laid down by my client. I can only reveal the nature o/ those conditions in person. I would be grateful, therefore, if you could reply by return to arrange a personal interview.

  Please accept my congratulations on reaching your majority.

  I am your humble and obedient servant,

  Josiah Ward

  George handed the letter to his mother. 'What can he mean? What conditions?'

  'I don't know, Georgie. Your father said something about you achieving various goals by a certain age. What they are I've no idea.'

  'But why? Why not just leave me the money?'

  'He fears you won't take your career seriously. He has other sons in the military, and they've all disappointed him.'

  'So I have half-brothers?'

  'Yes. But don't ask me about them. I promised your father I would keep his identity secret, and I intend to honour that promise. He's not a man to cross, Georgie, even if you are his son.'

  'So I'm supposed to ignore the fact that I have a father and brothers living, and go along with this charade?'

  His mother nodded.

  'Damned if I will,' spat George.

  'Georgie, please, for me. I've been reliant on your father's money, and now he's stopped paying your annuity I don't know what I'll do. I'm already overdrawn at the bank, and if something doesn't turn up soon I'll be forced to sell the house. So please go and see the lawyer. Hear what he has to say.'

  George stood up and walked over to the fireplace, resting his hand on the mantel. He remained there for some time with his back to his mother. His thoughts were confused. He had no wish to please a father he had never known, who had all but abandoned him, yet he was curious to know his identity. Moreover, he had enjoyed his military training thus far and did not require bribes to give of his best; if anything, they might cause him to do something foolish and send him to an early grave. Yet his beloved mother clearly needed some urgent financial support to save her house, and how could he manage that on his army pay?

  At last he turned. 'No good can come of this, Mother, but for your sake I will see this pen-pusher. You never know, Father's conditions might be easy to comply with and we'll both be rich. Now can we say no more on the subject, and enjoy one last evening of fine food and wine before the purse strings are tightened?'

  His mother rose and embraced her son. 'Of course, darling,' she whispered in his ear. 'Thank you.'

  George had always loved London, and he revelled in the bustling sights and sounds of the greatest urban centre in the world as his cab took him back in time from the vau
lted splendour of Brunei's Paddington Station to the Jacobean elegance of Gray's Inn Square in the City of London. It was still early, with little horse-traffic on the streets, and the driver was able to take the more direct, but usually busy, northern route along Marylebone and Euston roads, down Gray's Inn Road and into the square through an arched entrance topped with the image of Pegasus.

  'Whoa!' shouted the driver, causing the cab to come to a jerky halt. 'Number One, sir, as you requested.'

  George was confronted by a beautiful red-brick townhouse, i he first of a terrace. To the right of the front door was a small brass plaque that read, 'Ward Mills, Solicitors-at-Law'. A prosperous law firm if ever I saw one, thought George as he tapped on the door with his cane. It was answered by a stooped old cove in a dark suit and starched collar.

  'Yes?'

  'My name's George Hart. I'm here to see Mr Ward.'

  'Do come in.'

  The old man led the way down a dark corridor and into a spacious, oak-panelled office. George handed his hat, coat and cane to the man, expecting him to leave and fetch his master. Instead he hung George's things on a coat-stand near ilie door and sat down behind the large desk.

  'Do sit down,' he said.

  George's brow furrowed. 'Will Mr Ward be long?'

  'I am Mr Ward. Please, take a seat.'

  'But I thought you were . . .'

  'An understandable mistake,' said the lawyer, nodding, his lined features easing into a slight smile. 'After all, it's not every day the senior partner of a respected City law firm answers his own door. No indeed. And why today?' Ward tapped the side of his nose. 'Confidentiality, Mr Hart. My client has impressed upon me the delicacy of this matter, and has insisted upon absolute secrecy, as is his right. He is - how can I put it? - a man of considerable rank and influence. Our most valuable client, if you like, and we do all we can to retain his confidence, which is why I've given the rest of the firm the morning off.'

  'Very sensible,' said George, glancing at his pocket-watch. 'But I don't have long. I've got a train to catch to Manchester in under two hours. I'm expected at my new regiment at four in the afternoon and my commanding officer is not the type of man to be kept waiting.'

  'May I ask the name of the regiment?'

  'The First King's Dragoon Guards.'

  'A fine corps with an illustrious history, Mr Hart. My congratulations on your appointment.'

  'Thank you. Now can we get on?'

  'Of course.' Mr Ward picked up a manilla envelope from the desk. 'This envelope was handed to me by my client almost eighteen years ago. My instructions were to reveal its contents to you, and only you, on or soon after your eighteenth birthday. I should add that, once read, the letter is to remain in my possession. Shall I continue?'

  George snorted and shook his head. 'This is a rum business, Mr Ward. But I'm here now, so proceed.'

  Clutching an ivory paper knife in his thin, bony hand, the lawyer deftly opened the envelope and handed George the single sheet of thick, watermarked paper. The handwriting was untidy, sloping slightly to the right, and there was no heading or signature to identify the author. It read:

  To my son George Arthur Hart, Esq., To encourage you in your early military career, I have put aside the sum of £30,000. 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 - £5,000.

  2. Reach the substantive rank of lieutenant colonel in the British Army - £5,000.

  3. Be awarded the Victoria Cross - £10,000.

  If you comply with all three conditions within the time allotted, you will receive an additional sum of £10,000. 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.

  George read the note a second time and snorted. 'My father has an interesting sense of humour, don't you think?' he said, handing the letter to the lawyer.

  Mr Ward peered closely at the note through his half-moon spectacles. 'I am not sure I understand your meaning, Mr 11 art. It all seems quite straightforward to me.'

  George frowned. 'Straightforward? I can see, Mr Ward, you have no experience of the military. Victoria Crosses are only .awarded for, and I quote the Royal Warrant, "signal acts of valour or devotion to their Country". They require a level of conspicuous courage that few can hope to attain at any age, let .i lone in their twenties. As for achieving the substantive rank of lieutenant colonel by twenty-eight, it's well-nigh impossible. A young officer is lucky to make the step up to captain in that time, and most won't get further than lieutenant. I would need four promotions in ten years! The only condition that's achievable is to marry well. But there's a sting in the tail there too, because, as I'm sure my father's well aware, it is not the done thing in the army to marry young. Few colonels will give their permission, on the grounds that wives are seen as an encumbrance to junior officers. So I might earn five thousand, but I can wave goodbye to my career.'

  The old lawyer took off his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. 'These are large sums of money, Mr Hart. You father obviously intends that you should earn them.'

  'I am no stranger to hard work, if that's what you're implying,' said George testily. 'But these terms of my father's are far too steep. You'd have to possess the qualities of a young Napoleon to win the money. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a train to catch.'

  George rose and began to gather his belongings from the coat-stand.

  'What should I tell your father, Mr Hart? That you refuse his challenge?'

  George turned, his eyes flashing. 'I've never refused a challenge in my life. This isn't a challenge; it's a recipe for self-destruction. Tell my father he can keep his money; I owe him nothing. If I do well in the army it will be to satisfy my own ambition, and not to please a parent I don't even know. Good day to you.'

  'As you wish,' said Ward, 'but the bequest will still be here if you change your mind.'

  As George left the building, and his temper cooled, he wondered if he had been a bit hasty. It was, after all, not impossible for a young officer to be awarded the Victoria Cross by the age of twenty-eight; nor was complying with the other conditions completely out of the question. His anger, he realized, was not so much with the terms of the bequest, but rather because his absent father was trying to manipulate his career. What right did he have? None, as far as George could tell.

  He began to walk up Gray's Inn Road more determined than ever to make his own way in the world. He knew it would be a struggle, now that he had his mother to support, but he was used to that. All his life he had been swimming against the current.

  He turned and hailed an approaching cab. 'Where to, guv'nor?' asked the driver from his high perch behind the passenger's compartment.

  'Euston Station, please. As fast as you can.'

  Chapter 2

  Manchester, 5 September 1877

  George paused before the heavy oak door marked 'Commanding Officer'. He had heard much of Lieutenant Colonel Sir Jocelyn Harris, Bart., and none of it good. Possessed of a vast fortune and a large estate in Gloucestershire, Harris was said to be a harsh disciplinarian, a snob and worse, given George's sallow skin, a rabid xenophobe. George took off his heavy brass helmet with its '1 KDG' badge and red horsehair plume, and tucked it under his left arm. Taking a deep breath, he knocked twice, the hard wood stinging his knuckles.

  'Enter!' sounded an irritated voice within.

  George stepped into a large, sparsely furnished room, empty save for a couple of easy chairs and a mahogany desk, « behind which sat a tall, elegantly dressed figure that could only be Harris. Stopping the regulation six paces from the desk, George came to attention and saluted. 'Cornet George Hart reporting for duty, sir.'

  Harris continued writing. At last he looked up, scanning George's uniform for flaws. There w
ere none. The handsome young officer was immaculate in his scarlet tunic with blue velvet collar and cuffs, gold-striped dark blue breeches and shiny black leather boots. From his gold-lace sword-belt hung a regulation 1856-pattern heavy cavalry sword in its stainless- steel scabbard. His turnout was impeccable.

  Harris spoke at last. 'Glad to see you're wearing the regulation breeches, Hart. Too many of my officers cling to their leathered overalls, a full three years after they were discontinued. I won't stand for it, and the next officer to appear on parade improperly dressed will be arrested.'

  George breathed a sigh of relief that his appearance had not been criticized. Yet the man before him hardly looked the ogre of repute, with his thin, finely boned face, aquiline nose, blue eyes and fashionable mutton-chop whiskers. His golden hair, while thinning at the temples, contained no trace of grey. Only his lips, thin and curled, betrayed a slight hint of cruelty.