Zulu Hart (12 page)

‘How do you get on with the other men? Do you have anything in common?’

‘A lot of us come from the Welsh borders. And if I’ve more learning than most, I’m not the only one who can read and write, and we try to help the others with their letters. A few, like the Davies brothers, are a bit rough and ready. But overall they’re not a bad bunch.’

‘Do you know anything about the Kaffir tribes you’re being sent out to fight?’

‘Only that they fight with spears and won’t stand against a bayonet charge.’

George stopped brushing. ‘Is that what they told you? And what about the Zulus, have you heard of
them?

Thomas shook his head.

A week into the voyage and George had spoken, at one time or another, to all but two of the first-class passengers. The exceptions were both middle-ranking officers — a lieutenant colonel and a major - who, like him, had joined the ship at Plymouth. They could not have been less alike. The colonel was short and bald, with doleful eyes and a large, unruly beard; the major tall and powerfully built, a luxuriant moustache sprouting from under his long patrician nose.

As they were about to sit down for dinner, George asked Gossett the major’s name. ‘Oh, that’s Redvers Buller, one of our special service officers. Impressive, isn’t he? He was Wolseley’s intelligence chief during the Ashanti campaign and is tipped for great things. We’re lucky to have him.’

George was intrigued. ‘It sounds like it. But why would one of Wolseley’s protégés volunteer for service in Africa when a war in Europe is a strong possibility?’

‘Good question. And you could ask the same of Colonel Evelyn Wood over there, our other “special”. He’s also a member of the Wolseley “Ring”, and a VC-winner to boot.’

Gossett was nodding in the direction of the colonel. He looked so nondescript that George had paid him little heed. ‘That’s Wood?’ asked George, the astonishment evident in his voice.
‘The
Wood, who fought in the Crimea as a sixteen- year-old midshipman, switched to the army and promptly won a Victoria Cross during the Mutiny?’

‘The very same.’

George shook his head. ‘I’ll say
this,
he’s a most unlikely looking hero.’

‘They often are,’ said Gossett. ‘Would you like to meet him?’

George said yes and was placed next to Wood at dinner. It was a bizarre experience, not helped by the colonel’s apparent deafness. Fortunately Wood did most of the talking, regaling George with a stream of amusing anecdotes, including the time he tried to ride a giraffe for a bet and had his nose broken as a consequence. On a more serious note, he spoke passionately about the army’s need for more staff-trained officers - he himself had graduated from the Staff College in the 1860s - and a Prussian-style general staff to plan and execute war.

‘Take the recent Franco-Prussian War,’ said Wood. ‘Nobody expected the Prussians to win so easily - so why did they?’

Remembering a Sandhurst lecture on the war, George muttered something about the Prussian needle-gun and their excellent Krupp artillery.

‘What’s that?’ said Wood, cupping a hand to his ear. George repeated his point, but much louder this time.

‘Yes, yes, but bear in mind the French had the Mitrailleuse, a machine gun not unlike the Gatling, and that their own rifle had twice the range of the Dreyse. No, the key advantage for the Prussians was their general staff, which enabled them to mobilize and deploy with a speed and efficiency the French could not match. The sooner we follow their example, the better. But there’s little chance of that with a stick in-the-mud like the Duke of Cambridge at the head of the army. He opposed both the abolition of purchase and the introduction of short-service soldiering. Now I ask you, would such a dyed-in-the-wool conservative ever agree to limit his own power by creating a British general staff? I don’t think so.’

Next morning, George came across Lucy taking the air on the main deck. He knew it was foolish to be seen with her, and was about to walk past, when she beckoned him over. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to a large island away to the east. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? The steward assures me it’s Palma, the most westerly of the Canary Islands.’

George raised the telescope he was carrying to his eye. It was a fine sunny day, and he could make out houses in the hills and snow on the peaks. ‘You’re right, it’s very beautiful. Would you like a closer look?’

She accepted the telescope. ‘I wonder what it’s like to live there,’ she murmured. ‘I’m almost tempted to jump ship.’

‘No chance of that, I’m afraid. But try not to worry. All mention of Thompson’s death has ceased. I think we’re in the clear.’

‘I pray that’s the case. Does that mean we can see more of each other?’

‘No,’ said George. ‘It’s better to be safe than sorry. I shouldn’t really be talking to you now.’

‘Hello, Hart,’ said a voice behind them, causing George to turn sharply. It was Major Crealock, Thesiger’s military secretary, who had not spoken to George since the first evening on board. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming companion?’

‘You are mistaken, major. She’s not my companion. I was just lending Miss Hawkins my telescope so that she could see the island of Palma a little better.’

‘Ah, yes, it’s a fine sight. I’ve half a mind to paint it. Well, sorry for the interruption,’ said Crealock, bowing. ‘I hope to see you again, Miss Hawkins.’

Lucy nodded in acknowledgement.

‘You see what I mean?’ said George, once Crealock was out of earshot. ‘People are likely to make assumptions if they see us together. I’d better go. If you need to talk to me in future, send a message to my cabin. We mustn’t take any more chances until we’re safe on African soil.’

SS
American,
Atlantic Ocean, 13 February 1878

George stared at the ceiling above his bunk. His naked body was covered with a thin film of sweat, the sheet damp beneath him. He had been tossing and turning all night, but it was too hot to sleep. He swung his legs off the bunk, padded over to the washstand and splashed water on his clammy face. Would this torturous journey never end?
he
asked his unshaven reflection in the mirror. They had been at sea for two weeks now, and each passing day seemed to bring a rise in temperature. But the heat was the least of his worries: until he disembarked, he would run the constant risk of being exposed as Thompson’s killer.

An hour later, dressed simply in blue serge trousers, a white cotton shirt and a straw boater, George made his way down to the horsedeck. He found Pickering shovelling Emperor’s droppings into a wooden bucket.

‘How is he?’ asked George.

‘A little off colour, Mr Hart,’ said the groom, pausing in his labours. ‘He’s hardly touched his breakfast.’

George leant over the rail of the stall and saw for himself the untouched mixture of bran and oats. Emperor was standing motionless in his sling, his head bowed, seemingly oblivious to George’s presence.

‘Not like him at all,’ observed George. ‘It must be the heat. It’s bad enough on deck, and must be unbearable down here.’

George left the stall and returned, a minute or two later, with a damp cloth and a sponge soaked in vinegar. He used the sponge to moisten Emperor’s quivering nostrils, a tried- and-tested remedy for seasickness. The cloth he placed over the horse’s head to keep him cool.

‘Does that make any difference?’ asked George, nodding in the direction of a nearby canvas tube that, attached to a wind sail, was meant to bring fresh air to the horsedeck.

‘Sometimes,’ said Pickering with a grimace. ‘But only if there’s a breeze.’

George got his meaning. When the wind was up, the ship fairly flew
along,
powered as it was by both sail and steam; but as they approached the equator the wind had died away, leaving them on steam power alone.

George stroked Emperor’s muzzle. ‘Good boy. Not long to go now.’

In truth they were still a fortnight from Durban. But George’s words of reassurance seemed to soothe Emperor and the horse whinnied in reply.

‘I’ll be back after breakfast,’ said George.

‘Begging your pardon, Mr Hart, but will you not
be
attending the flogging?’

‘What flogging?’

‘Haven’t you heard? A private of the Twenty-Fourth was caught stealing grog. He’s to be flogged after breakfast.’

George had missed dinner the night before with an upset stomach, and this was news to him. ‘Do you know his name?’

‘Thomas, I think.’

‘Owen
Thomas?’

‘I think so, sir.’

George stared open-mouthed. He had liked Thomas from the off and, since their initial meeting, had spoken to him on a number of occasions, discussing Africa and learning the gossip from the ranks. They were both outsiders, in their different ways, and George had nothing but admiration for

Thomas’s zest for life.
For him to have committed an offence worthy of flogging was scarcely credible.

‘There must be some mistake,’ said George at last. ‘It’s probably another Thomas.’

‘No mistake, I can assure you,’ said Major Crealock, looking up from the small desk in his cabin. ‘He was caught red- handed in the quartermaster’s store, drunk as a lord.’

This was the first time that George had had occasion to speak to Crealock since their encounter on deck with Lucy. Gossett had told him that the major was a clever, fiercely ambitious officer who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and George had resolved to keep out of his way. But having discovered that Crealock was president of Thomas’s court
martial,
and therefore chiefly responsible for the severity of his punishment, George had felt compelled to confront him.

‘That’s as may be,’ said George curtly, ‘but how can it merit a flogging?’

Crealock put down his pen and leant back in his chair. ‘Hart, can I speak plainly? This is a military matter and you are no longer a soldier. The sentence of the court was confirmed by General Thesiger, who, as a teetotaller, has little sympathy for drunkards. It’s not your concern.’

‘I
know
Private Thomas. He’s not a troublemaker, far from it. He’s a quiet, sensitive fellow and has it in him to become a first-class soldier. Flogging him will do more harm than good.’

‘So you say, but in my experience a short, sharp lesson is the only way to discourage reoffending.’

‘I thought,’ said George, changing tack, ‘that flogging had been abolished in peacetime.’

‘And so it has,’ replied Crealock with a sneer. ‘But we’re not at peace, are we? We’re on our way to a theatre of war, which means we’re on active service. As things stand, Thomas’s sentence is lawful, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ Crealock looked at his pocket-watch. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m required on deck. Will you be joining us?’

George was torn. He had seen all too many soldiers flogged during his short time with the KDG. But he felt he owed it to Thomas to share his suffering. ‘Lead the way.’

They left the cabin and joined the other officers and
gentlemen
on the poopdeck. Captain Wilson was there, looking suitably grave. General Thesiger appeared less concerned and was sharing a joke with Gossett. George stood apart, his hands on the rail above the main deck. Down below him, formed into a hollow square, stood row upon row of red-faced, sweating soldiers. Despite the fierceness of the equatorial sun, they had been ordered to don their full dress uniforms of scarlet woollen tunic, dark blue Oxford trousers and black leather boots. A garb less suitable for the tropics was hard to imagine. The only item of a soldier’s kit that seemed to take account of the African sun and heat was his cloth-covered cork helmet, complete with a peak to shield the eyes and a tail to protect the neck.

‘Bring out the prisoner,’ shouted a dapper officer with a waxed moustache. The collar and cuffs of his scarlet dress tunic were the unmistakeable light green of the 24th Foot; in place of a cork helmet he wore a peaked forage cap with a sphinx and the number ‘24’ prominent on its front. The crown on his shoulder and single bar of lace on his cuff identified him as a lieutenant.

Leaning forward, George could see a defiant-looking Thomas emerge from a hatch. Stripped to the waist and flanked on either side by an armed marine, he was led to the centre of the hollow square.

‘Private Thomas,’ said the lieutenant of the 24th in a loud, clear voice, ‘a court martial has found you guilty of theft. The sentence is twenty-five lashes. Secure the prisoner.’

A wooden ladder had been attached to the rigging, and to this the marines tied Thomas’s wrists above his head with leather thongs, leaving his white scrawny back exposed. Two burly drummers then took their positions on either side of Thomas. They both held a cat o’nine tails, comprised of a foot-long wooden handle and nine lengths of knotted whipcord.

‘On my command,’ bellowed the lieutenant.
‘One!’

The drummer to Thomas’s left drew back his right hand and swung the cat in a vicious arc, shifting his weight as he did so from his right foot to his left. As the blow struck, Thomas gave a low moan, the sound muffled by the cloth gag in his mouth.