‘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.’
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 were 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.
Harris’s voice brought him out of his reverie. ‘And there’s another thing I won’t stand for, Hart. I won’t have unsuitable officers like you foisted on my regiment. You may have finished top of your class at Sandhurst, but that holds no sway with me. When I joined the army in the fifties, you had to buy your commission. It was a way of ensuring that only
gentlemen
of property, men with a vested interest in the status quo, became officers. But since Cardwell, and the abolition of purchase, any Tom, Dick or Harry can get a commission. Meritocracy
be
damned. It’s a bloody disgrace.’
George wisely said nothing and kept his eyes fixed on the regimental photograph behind Harris. ‘We’ve learnt to put up with change in the King’s Dragoon Guards, Hart. We’ve even accepted the odd officer whose money comes from trade. But in the illustrious one-hundred-and-ninety-year history of this regiment, the officers have never been asked to share a mess with a tawny Irishman of unknown paternity.’
The colour rose in George’s cheeks.
‘Tell me if I’m wrong,’ said Harris with a sneer, ‘but is not your mother an actress, a profession little removed from a street girl? As for your father, well, bar your mother, and possibly not even her, nobody knows his identity. He could be anyone.’
Stony-faced, his fists clenched, George took a step forward.
‘Stand still!’ bellowed Harris. ‘You dare to approach me without leave, I’ll have you cashiered.’
George could contain himself no longer. ‘Sir,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I must protest in the strongest terms. I’ve endured many taunts on account of my birth. But I cannot stand silent while you insult my mother.’
‘Can you not, Hart? Glad to hear it. Our acquaintance is going to be even shorter than I’d hoped. But let me spell it out for you in case you’re confused. I did not approve your appointment. I was not even consulted. Instead I was informed by the military secretary, no less, that you would be joining us on such and such a date. When I protested that I knew nothing about you, he waved my objections aside. Clearly you have friends in high places. Well, so do I, and I’ve made enquiries. I know you were a bit of a loner at both Harrow and Sandhurst, that you had few friends and that you’re prone to settle arguments with your fists.’
‘Sir,’ said George, trying hard to keep his voice level, ‘I have only ever fought in defence of my person and my mother’s honour.’
Harris grimaced. ‘Honour, you say. Can a common actress have honour?’
‘Her father, my grandfather, was an officer and a gentleman.’
‘He was a captain in the Twenty-Seventh Inniskilling Fusiliers - hardly the same thing. But I digress. The point is
,
no cavalry regiment in the British Army would have accepted an officer like you by choice. I certainly wouldn’t have. And yet here you are. So we’ll try and make the best of it. If you learn your duties well, and prove to me that you have the makings, if not the breeding, of an officer, then all will be well. But if you step out of line, even so much as an inch, then your time here will be brief indeed.’ Harris waved his hand dismissively. ‘Now get out!’
George was still seething as he strode across the barrack square to the headquarters office of E Troop, the sub-unit to which he had been assigned. His mind wandered back to the early days of torment at Harrow: to the taunts of ‘Fenian bastard’ and ‘oily blackguard’; to the endless fagging and the constant terror of being hauled from his bed and tossed from a blanket until he had struck the low ceiling the requisite number of times, a favourite Harrow ordeal. The fight with Percy Sykes had put a stop to the physical bullying, but not the taunts. They had continued during his military training at Sandhurst, and his only solace had been his friendship with Jake Morgan, the son of a Welsh colliery owner and another outsider.
Determined to outdo their haughty classmates, they had drilled and studied hard, even during free weekends when most gentleman-cadets fled Camberley for the fleshpots of London. And the work paid off. George had passed out first of the summer class of 1877, Jake second. George remembered the elation he felt as he accepted the General Proficiency Sword from General Lawrence: surely now, he had thought, lie would be judged by what he did, not where he came from. Harris had proved him wrong.
‘You must be Hart?’ said a voice, as George entered E Troop’s small, cluttered office. A smiling officer came over and shook his hand. ‘I’m Dick Marter.
Your troop commander.’
George took in the gold-braided double Austrian knot on Marter’s sleeve, denoting the rank of captain. He also noted the livid red scar above his left eyebrow, and the two campaign medals - the Crimea and China - on his left breast. Marter was clearly a veteran.