Zulu Hart Read online

  'Not so fast, Mr Hart,' he said in a voice with traces of Cockney.

  'Who are you?' said George, stopping.

  'My name's Thompson. I'm a private detective working for Sir Jocelyn Harris. You've got something of his,' he said, nodding at Lucy, 'and he wants it back.'

  'Kindly inform your master that Miss Hawkins has left his employ. Any money owed will be paid in full.'

  The man's round, flat face broke into a sneer. 'I think not. I've been told to return the young woman to Westbury Park and that's what I intend to do. What Colonel Harris has in store for her I wouldn't like to say.'

  'Why you bloody—'

  'Temper, temper,' taunted Thompson. 'Seems the colonel's not the only one with a soft spot for the girl, and I can see why. But that's no concern of mine. Just hand her over and you can leave in one piece.'

  'Please don't, George!' cried Lucy.

  George took in Thompson's size - at least 6' 4" and heavily built - and decided his only hope of besting him was surprise. 'Look,' he said, putting down his bags and reaching into his pocket for money, 'I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. I've got about a hundred pounds here. Will that do?'

  He held out the notes in his left hand, and as Thompson leant forward greedily to take them he caught him flush on the chin with a right cross. There was a loud thud as fist met flesh and bone, causing Thompson to stagger like a drunk. But he stayed on his feet. My God, thought George, he's even tougher than I thought; I'd better finish this quickly.

  George moved forward with both fists raised, in classic pugilist style, but his opponent was a street fighter from the

  East End of London who would use anything to hand. 'Watch out, he's got a sword-stick!' shrieked Lucy as Thompson unsheathed a rapier blade from his cane, the street gaslight glinting on its shiny surface.

  He slipped on the cobbles as he thrust at George with the point, missing his midriff by inches. George responded with two quick punches, a right and a left, that both caught Thompson in the face and again failed to down him. 'You'll have to do better than that, boy,' he said, wiping blood from his mouth.

  George thought about flight. He knew he could outrun the bigger man, but that would mean abandoning Lucy, who was crouching in fear behind him. 'Run, Lucy, now!' he shouted over his shoulder. 'I'll meet you at the docks.'

  'What about you?'

  'I'll be all right. Just go!'

  As Lucy set off up Lockyer Street, her bag bumping against her legs, Thompson came on again, forcing George to retreat until his left heel bumped against something solid. It was his kitbag. In one fluid motion he crouched down to grab the bag, keeping his eyes all the while on his assailant. Thompson seized his opportunity and lunged forward, the point of his blade entering not flesh but the thin canvas of the bag that George had, in the nick of time, raised for protection. In struggling to free the blade, Thompson lost balance and staggered backwards. It gave George a few crucial seconds to pull the drawstring on the bag, reach inside and grasp his grandfather's revolver.

  'Don't move,' shouted George, levelling the pistol at Thompson's breast, 'or I'll shoot!'

  Thompson saw the pistol and laughed. 'I haven't seen one of those ancient pieces for years. It's probably not even loaded.'

  'I assure you it is. Don't make me prove it.' George turned to Lucy, who had stopped halfway up the street. 'Keep going!'

  A movement caught his eye. Thompson had seized on the momentary lapse in concentration and was lurching towards him again to run him through. George swung round. A loud boom sounded from the pistol and flame leapt from its muzzle. The heavy lead ball tore into the right side of Thompson's chest, spinning his body round as he crumpled to the ground, his sword-stick ringing on the cobblestones. A shocked George looked at the revolver in his hand, then down at his victim. He was lying on his front, a large crimson stain spreading on the cobbles beneath him. As he gasped for breath the gaping exit wound on his back made a curious sucking sound; from his lips dribbled frothy bubbles of pink blood. George felt sick.

  'Will he die?' asked Lucy, who had run back down the street on hearing the shot.

  'I don't know . . . probably. I think he's been hit in the lung. My God, what have I done?'

  'It's not your fault, George. You had no choice. But all the same we should get help.'

  George glanced up. 'Have you gone insane? If he dies I'll swing for sure.'

  'But it was self-defence.'

  'Yes, but it was hardly a fair fight. I had a pistol to his sword-stick. How do you think I'm going to explain that?'

  'You were protecting me.'

  'I know, but they'll never believe us. I'll be charged with manslaughter at the very least; Harris will see to that. No, Lucy, the only thing to do is make ourselves scarce. In a few hours we'll be clear of England forever. And don't feel sorry for him. He's a goner, I'm certain of that, and good riddance.' George picked up his bag. 'Let's go.'

  Lucy hesitated. 'We can't just leave him.'

  'He tried to kill me, for heaven's sake! Now come on.'

  Reluctantly she followed.

  An hour later and George was still in shock. The nausea had gone, to be replaced by a cold sweat and the shakes. Did I need to pull the trigger? he kept asking himself, and each time the answer was yes.

  He shivered and turned up the collar of his quilted pea- jacket as a biting wind blew across the dockside. Looming above him was the silent bulk of the SS American, a hybrid steam-sail vessel that for five years had been ferrying mail and passengers to South Africa for the Union Steamship Company. She did not look particularly swift with her stubby centre funnel, twin masts and a poopdeck that reminded George of a Spanish galleon. Yet the month she would take to cover the 6,800 nautical miles that separated Plymouth from Durban was, George had been assured by the ticket office, faster than any other form of transport.

  Lucy was already on board, snug in her second-class cabin. George had remained on shore to await the arrival of his horse, Emperor, from the nearby livery stable. A clatter of hooves signalled his wait was over.

  'Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you, Pickering?' said George to the groom who was holding Emperor's lead rein.

  'Sorry, sir, but he didn't want to leave his stable.'

  'Never does, lazy blighter. Well, get him stowed. We don't have much time.'

  'Sir,' said Pickering, with a nod, as he led Emperor up the gangway and on to the ship's main deck. There he was placed in a small wooden horsebox and lowered by a derrick into the bowels of the ship. Once below deck, Emperor was put into a narrow stall, a canvas sling beneath his belly to prevent him from falling in bad weather. Cinders were spread beneath his hooves to give him grip, and carbolized powder scattered as a disinfectant. Lastly he was watered and fed, the groom mixing a spoonful of nitre with his bran and oats to ward off seasickness. George supervised the whole operation, soothing the frightened horse with quiet words of assurance. He was surprised to see so many neighbouring stalls empty, and asked Pickering the reason.

  'Oh, that's because the troops on board are mainly infantry, sir,' replied Pickering. 'All the horses you can see are the property of officers.'

  'Is that so?' said George. 'Well, look after Emperor. I'll check on him at evening stables.'

  Back on deck, George was welcomed by the purser and allocated a first-class cabin on the starboard side of the ship. He found it cramped but comfortable with a bunk, desk and small fitted wardrobe. He paid the porter and was sorting out his gear when a horn signalled the ship's imminent departure. George peered out of the porthole at Plymouth docks and wondered for the hundredth time whether he had made the right decision. What would Africa hold for him? And when, if ever, would he see Britain's shores again?

  George was still lost in thought when a tall, sandy-haired officer poked his head round the half-open door. 'Hello,' said the officer. 'As we're going to be neighbours, I thought I'd better introduce myself. I'm Captain Matthew Gossett.'

  'George Hart. Pleased to meet y
ou.'

  The two shook hands.

  'So where are you heading for?' asked Gossett.

  'Durban.'

  'Business or pleasure?'

  'Both, I hope. I've got family near Pietermaritzburg. And you?'

  'Oh, definitely business. I'm an aide-de-camp to General Thesiger, the new commander-in-chief in South Africa. We're off to fight the Kaffir tribes of the eastern Cape. The war's been dragging on since last September and we're going out to see if we can put an end to it. You do know there's a war on?'

  George nodded. It was a reasonable question, with the press devoting most of its foreign coverage to the Russo- Turkish War and the possibility of Britain entering on the side of the Turks to protect Constantinople. But he had discovered, hidden away in The Times, a small article about Thesiger and his predecessor, Sir Arthur Cunynghame. For five months Cunynghame had tried and failed to bring the war against the Galeka and Gaika tribes - the so-called Ninth Kaffir War — to a successful conclusion. Now it was somebody else's turn. The only surprise was that Thesiger had been chosen ahead of Sir Garnet Wolseley, Britain's foremost fighting general, and a man with extensive experience of African warfare and politics. Thesiger had neither, though he had served on Napier's staff during the Abyssinian Campaign of 1868. His advantage over Wolseley was that he was very much an Establishment man: an aide-de-camp to Queen Victoria and a traditionalist when it came to reform. Wolseley was a man of action and ideas, and his championing of change had gained him the enmity of both the conservative Duke of Cambridge and his cousin the queen.

  George could not resist asking his neighbour's opinion of Thesiger's prospects.

  'I have no worries about General Thesiger's ability, if that's what you're getting at,' replied Gossett. 'I've been with him for six months, and you'd be lucky to meet a kinder-hearted man or a more efficient soldier. No, what concerns me is the quality of the troops available to him. You've only got to look at the soldiers on board. Most are barely out of short trousers and few have even completed a recruit's course of musketry. It's an absolute scandal and, in my opinion, the inevitable consequence of Cardwell's decision to introduce short-service soldiering. In the old days, when soldiers could serve twenty years and more, a regiment would be packed with veterans. Now that the term is six years with the Colours and six with the Reserve, greenhorns are the order of the day.'

  George was in complete agreement, telling Gossett that during his limited time with the King's Dragoon Guards the youth and inexperience of the troopers had been the talk of the officers' mess.

  'You were in the army?' asked Gossett, eyebrows raised. 'Why ever did you leave?'

  'Oh, various reasons. I didn't get on with my CO.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Gossett. He looked as if he was about to ask another question, then seemed to think better of it. 'Well, I must be off. The general will probably want his bed turned down, or some such nonsense.'

  '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.