Zulu Hart Page 7

  George nodded.

  'Well, there's something you need to know before you go. It may alter your plans.'

  'Go on.'

  'You have family in Natal.'

  family? said George, a baffled look on his face. 'What family?'

  His mother bit her lip, as if loath to continue. After a lengthy pause, she said quietly, 'You have an uncle, my half- brother, Patrick. He lives on a farm near Pietermaritzburg that was left to both of us by my father. Half of it is rightfully yours.'

  George stared wide-eyed. 'An uncle and a farm! You can't be serious? Why didn't you mention this before?'

  'Because I haven't heard from Patrick in years. But if you're going to South Africa you can look him up. It's got to be a better bet than prospecting for diamonds.'

  George stood there, shaking his head. 'You never cease to amaze me. Not content with one bombshell, you drop two. Are you sure there isn't anything else I should know?'

  His mother looked rueful. 'As it happens there is, but please try to understand that I've kept all this quiet for your sake.'

  'Kept what quiet?'

  Again she hesitated, as if weighing up the damage her latest revelation would cause. George could see in her tortured expression the mental struggle she was going through.

  'Kept what quiet, Mother?' he asked again.

  Unable to keep it a secret any longer, she blurted out, 'That my mother, your grandmother, was the daughter of a Zulu chief.'

  George looked stunned, his face a mask of disbelief. 'What are you talking about? You told me your mother was Maltese.'

  'That's what your father wanted me to tell you. He didn't want you to grow up with the stigma of having African blood. I suppose he wanted to make it as easy as possible for people in the army to accept your Mediterranean looks. But you're not in the army now and it's as well you know the truth. You were bound to find out from your uncle, in any event.'

  George slowly shook his head. 'I can't believe I'm hearing this. It's just too much to take in. Forgive me, I need some air.'

  'Georgie, wait!' said his mother, plaintively.

  He ignored her and left the house. For an hour he wandered the streets, trying to make sense of these latest revelations. Why didn't she tell me before? he asked himself, again and again. How could she bring me up as a Christian gentleman, educated at Harrow and Sandhurst, when in truth I'm nothing more than an illegitimate half-breed who's been abandoned by his father? What was she thinking of? And where does that leave me? Am I civilized or a savage? Desperate for answers, he returned to Connaught Square.

  He found his mother where he had left her, tears streaking her face. For a long time he just stared in silent reproach. At last he spoke: 'I wish you'd told me all this before.'

  'I was trying to protect you.'

  'Well you failed. Look at me, brought up a gent, wearing the latest fashions.' He gestured towards his stylish double- breasted Cambridge coat and dark blue whipcord trousers. 'But it's all a sham. I've obviously got foreign blood and everyone knows it.'

  His mother was angry now. 'So you have. But don't you dare feel sorry for yourself. Can you imagine how hard it was for me growing up in Dublin with brown skin and no mother? And yet I survived and made a living. So must you.'

  'You think I don't know that? Why do you think I raised the subject of Africa in the first place?'

  'I know. I'm sorry. But you must admit it's quite a coincidence you choosing to seek your fortune in the country of my birth.'

  'I don't believe in coincidence,' said George, calmer now. 'It must be fate.'

  'Possibly.'

  'So tell me about your mother.'

  'Her name was Ngqumbazi. She was the daughter of a Zulu chief called Xongo kaMuziwento. You have heard of the Zulus?'

  'I think so. Wasn't King Shaka a Zulu?'

  'He was.'

  George remembered back to long, drowsy summer afternoons at Sandhurst, listening to the history lecturer drone on about the early nineteenth-century military genius who, in less than a decade, had revolutionized tribal warfare and transformed an insignificant Bantu tribe into the dominant power in southeast Africa. 'So where does your mother fit in?'

  'I'm coming to that. As you probably know, Shaka was murdered in eighteen twenty-eight by his half-brother Dingane, who was toppled in turn by another brother, Mpande. My mother's family were followers of Mpande and were with him during his brief exile in Natal in eighteen thirty-nine. While there she met my father, who was stationed with his regiment in Durban. By the time Mpande returned to Zulu- land to defeat his brother Dingane, early the following year, Ngqumbazi was already pregnant with me. Her family would never have accepted her back with a half-white baby. So she stayed in Natal until I was born, handed me over to my father and then left. I never saw her again.'

  'What about my uncle? Is he part Zulu too?'

  'No. Patrick's the son of a Basuto servant girl who worked for us until my father returned to Ireland with his regiment in forty-six.'

  'Taking you but leaving your brother?'

  'Yes. I had no mother; he did. We left them on the farm.'

  'Do you know what happened to your mother? Could she still be alive?'

  'It's possible, though we heard nothing after she returned to Zululand. If she is still alive, she'd be in her sixties.'

  'Well, if I do make it to Natal, I'll try and find out.'

  'So you've decided to go to Natal rather than Kimberley?'

  'To begin with, yes. I've a mind to meet this mystery uncle and claim my share of the inheritance. But if it doesn't work out I'll give the diamond mines a go.'

  His mother stared at him for some time. At last, a tear in her eye, she said, 'Wait here. I've got something for you.'

  She returned a few minutes later and gave George an oilskin packet tied with string. He opened it and discovered two items: a small gold signet ring and an ancient muzzle-loading five-shot revolver, the metal dulled and the wooden handle scarred. 'They were my father's.'

  George tried the ring on the little finger of his right hand; it fitted perfectly.

  'That was given to him by his father,' Emma added. 'The gun saved his life in the Crimea. I hope it does the same for you. Africa's a dangerous country.'

  'Thank you, Mother,' said George, turning the pistol over in his hands. 'I'll keep them with me always.'

  That evening, before dining with his mother for the final time in heaven knew how long, George wrote his promised letter to Lucy Hawkins, the chambermaid who had so captivated him at Westbury Park. It was good news:

  Dear Lucy,

  Today I received a message from my best friend, Jake Morgan. He writes that his father, Thomas Morgan of

  Tredegar Park in Monmouthshire, is writing to offer you the position of Morgan's lady's maid.

  It is a step up from your

  current employment and, more importantly, will provide a

  solution to your difficulty. I have forwarded your details to Mr Morgan and you should be hearing from him presently.

  For my part, 1 am going to seek my fortune in South Africa and leave by the Plymouth mail packet next Thursday.

  1 much enjoyed our brief acquaintance and hope we will meet again when I return to Britain.

  I am, etc.,

  George Hart

  Having sealed and addressed the envelope, George rang for Manners. 'Make sure this goes by first post tomorrow morning.'

  'Yes, Mr Hart.' Manners stood there awkwardly.

  'Anything the matter?'

  'Begging your pardon, sir, but the mistress happened to mention you were starting your journey to Africa tomorrow, and I just wanted to wish you, on behalf of all the staff, the best of luck with your travels.'

  'Thank you, Manners,' said George, a tear coming suddenly to his eye. 'You and some of the older servants have been like a family to me. I'll do my best to return in one piece.'

  So recently he had stood before the old man with a fine military career in front of him, a
n officer and a gentleman. Now he didn't know who he was.

  Chapter 5

  The Angel Inn, Plymouth, 30 January 1878

  George stared at his food. It was his favourite dish - beef stew and dumplings - and, having eaten little that day, he should have been wolfing it down. But now that it had arrived, brought to him by a jolly serving girl with bad teeth and an ample bosom, he found he had no appetite. He felt queasy, and put it down to the strain of the previous few days and the nerves that were natural when embarking on a long and uncertain journey. When the sickness passed, he took another swig of his glass of claret, toasting Jake's generosity in the process, and looked appreciatively around the cosy, low-beamed private room that the innkeeper had set aside for his dinner. The room was silent but for the gentle crackling of the wood fire in the grate.

  A sharp knock and the door opened. 'Begging your pardon, sir,' said the serving girl, 'there's someone here to see you.'

  George's brow furrowed. 'Me? Impossible: no one knows I'm here.'

  'It's a young woman, sir. She asked for you by name.'

  'Well, you'd better show her in, then,' said George, none the wiser, but curious all the same.

  Moments later a small figure appeared in the doorway, her features concealed by the hood of a black cloak glistening with rainwater. She was holding a small portmanteau. 'Hello, sir.'

  The voice sounded familiar. 'Lucy? Is that you under there?'

  She pulled back her hood to reveal a pretty, tear-stained face and dishevelled hair. Her lower lip was swollen and she was shivering.

  'It is you,' he said, rising from his seat. 'You poor thing, you're soaked. Take off your wet things and warm yourself by the fire.'

  She stood there motionless, so George helped her out of her cloak and sat her by the fire. When the flames and a glass of whisky had brought some colour back to her cheeks, he asked her what had happened.

  'Last night he came to my room,' she said in a dull monotone.

  'Who came?'

  'Sir Jocelyn. It was late and the other servants were already in bed. He asked me about the letter I'd received from Ireland, and whether it was from you. I said no, but he didn't believe me. He demanded to see it.'

  'And did you let him?'

  'I had no choice. It put him into such a fury. He asked me what I'd done to encourage you to write to me. I said nothing, but he didn't believe me. He said that if you, a lowborn foreigner, were good enough for me, then he certainly was. He tried to kiss me again but I wouldn't let him. When he persisted, I slapped him.' The memory of what happened next caused the tears to flow anew, great rivulets of sorrow that sparkled in the firelight.

  George feared the worst, but he needed to know. 'What did Harris do?'

  'He hit me,' she said, putting her hand to her battered lip. 'Then he told me to take off my nightdress. I refused and he punched me in the stomach. I couldn't breathe, it was horrible. He threatened to hit me again if I resisted, so I didn't. I just wanted it to be over.'

  Great waves of fury were breaking over George. 'Did he . . . ?'

  He left the sentence unfinished, but his meaning was obvious.

  'No, but he would have if Mrs Bradbury hadn't intervened. She was looking for Sir Jocelyn and heard my cries.'

  'She stopped him?' asked George, scarcely able to believe that one of the agents of his downfall had saved Lucy's honour.

  'Yes. He'd locked my door, but she demanded that he open it, and eventually he did. She found me sobbing, naked on the bed, saw at once what he was about and shouted at him to get out. After he left she burst into tears, saying she hadn't thought him capable of such a despicable act and that she wanted nothing more to do with him. She also said she was determined to leave his house that very night and that she was happy to take me with her. I was only too glad to accept. She gave me a little money, which I used to get here.'

  'Well, thank God for Mrs Bradbury,' said George, in a voice so low it was barely audible. 'She's gone at least some way to making amends for her perfidy. But we can't let Harris get away with this. Where is he now?'

  'Still at Westbury Park, I imagine.'

  'Have you told anyone else about this?'

  She shook her head.

  'Why not? You should have gone to the police.'

  'That's what Mrs Bradbury suggested. But what good would it do? He's a baronet and a magistrate; I'm a servant. They're hardly likely to take my word over his.'

  George knew she was right, and it made him angrier still. 'He deserves to die for the way he's treated us.'

  Lucy was silent.

  'I've taken a room upstairs,' said George, rising. 'You can sleep there. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'To Gloucestershire.'

  'Please don't. No good can come of it. If you kill him you'll certainly be hanged.'

  'I don't care.'

  'Well I do. I won't have your blood on my hands.'

  A loud knock sounded on the door.

  'What is it?' said George loudly.

  'Only me, sir,' said the serving girl, peering round the door. 'Would your guest like some refreshments? We're about to close the kitchen.'

  'Would you?' he asked Lucy. 'You should.'

  She shook her head.

  'No, thank you,' said George to the girl. 'That will be all.'

  The girl bobbed her head and left. Her interruption had cooled George's anger a little and allowed him to think. Murder was not the solution. There had to be another way to make Harris pay. 'I could call him out,' he said after a long pause.

  'He won't accept. He can't: he'd lose his commission. And even if he did, you might die rather than him.'

  'What, then, would you have me do?'

  'There is something you can do for me.'

  'What?'

  'Take me with you to South Africa, where we can both start again.'

  Of course, thought George. That was why she had come. She knew from his letter that he was due to leave the following morning on the weekly mail packet. She must have visited countless inns in the town before finding him. But it changed nothing. How could he take her with him? He had already spent much of Jake's money on clothes suitable for South Africa and his boat ticket. He needed the rest to survive. And much as he liked Lucy, he hardly knew her. No, he decided, he would stick to his original plan.

  'I can't take you with me.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I have no fixed plans beyond visiting my uncle in Pietermaritzburg. I might go on to Kimberley to try my luck in the diamond fields. I just don't know. In any case, I intend to travel light. I'm taking my horse and a minimum of kit. You'd only slow me down.'

  'I won't slow you down. I can ride, you know. I learnt as a young girl.'

  'I'm sorry, Lucy. I've made my decision and it's final. Besides, you've got a perfectly good job to go to in Monmouthshire, as I told you in my letter. They're good people and will treat you well.'

  Lucy began to cry. 'I'm sure they will, and I'm very grateful to you for finding me a new position. But I can't stay in Britain,' she sobbed. 'Sir Jocelyn might find me. He lent my father money in lieu of my wages and I've yet to pay it back.'

  George walked over and held her close. He did not want to take her with him. The last thing he needed was another mouth to feed. But nor was he prepared to leave her to Harris's tender mercy. He settled for a compromise. 'Now stop your crying. You can come to South Africa; I'll buy you a ticket. But to Cape Town, not Durban, and from there you're on your own. And you'll go second class, not first class. It's all I can afford.'

  Lucy looked up at him and smiled. 'You won't regret it, sir.'

  'I hope not - and don't call me sir. George will do.'

  It was still dark when they left the inn the following morning. The rain had stopped but the cobbles were slick with water. 'Watch your step,' said George. 'These wet streets can be lethal.'

  They walked down Lockyer Street towards Citadel Road, intending to catch a horse-
drawn tram to the Great Western Docks about a mile distant. But as they neared the end of the street, a bulky figure in a top hat and cape appeared from a side road and blocked their path.

  Excuse us,' said, stepping off the pavement to avoid the obstacle. But as he did so, Lucy following, the man moved to intercept them, using his cane as a barrier.