‘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.
‘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 you.’
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.’