Zulu Hart (24 page)

‘Isn’t he a friend of Bishop Colenso?’

‘He is, but he’s also a soldier and an ambitious one at that. It was his idea to augment each column with native levies, so it made sense to put him in charge. He speaks the lingo, after all, and has some experience commanding black troops. But his real expertise is as a sapper, and he used it to good effect by writing us an extremely helpful memorandum on bridging the Tugela. The surveyor who was apprehended by Zulus at the end of September was actually carrying out Durnford’s instructions to inspect the Middle Drift of the Tugela with a view to ferrying troops across.’

Frere chuckled. ‘So the Zulus were right to be suspicious.’

‘Yes, but he denied everything and they had to let him go.’

George could not believe what he was hearing. Why would Durnford, of all people, help to prepare the invasion? Surely he wanted to prevent war. It did not make sense.

‘And we end up turning the incident to our advantage,’ said Frere admiringly, ‘by expressing outrage that the Zulus have dared to arrest a harmless white surveyor. Now, as you know, my intention is to issue the ultimatum at the same time we announce the boundary award, to sugar the pill, so to speak. What I need to know is when it would make sense to do this from a military point of view.’

‘I think,’ said Lord Chelmsford, ‘that Mr Fynn might best answer that question. He’s a local, after all, and has forgotten more than most people know about the Zulus.’

‘I’m flattered you have such faith in me, my Lord,’ said a voice with a faint colonial accent. ‘But could I first ask Sir Bartle how much time the Zulus will be given to comply with the ultimatum?’

‘Thirty days.’

‘Then early December would be ideal. That way, if the ultimatum is refused, we’ll be able to declare war in early January, when the rivers are in spate, so providing Natal with a natural barrier from a counterattack. It’s also harvest time and the Zulus won’t be able to sustain a long campaign.’

‘Excellent,’ said Frere. ‘Early December it is. Now, are you sure, Lord Chelmsford, you’ll have enough men to complete the job?’

‘I will if the War Office agrees to send the two extra British battalions I’ve asked for. I have six already, but would prefer eight: one for each column, one in reserve and two for garrison duty. But it seems that trouble is brewing in Afghanistan and the Cabinet is worried that it won’t have enough troops to fight both wars at the same time.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve told Hicks Beach at the Colonial Office that it’ll be on the government’s head if the war goes badly because your request for more troops was ignored. They’ll send them, never fear. They can’t afford not to.’

‘But if the Cabinet’s so keen to avoid a war,’ said Chelmsford, ‘won’t it regard your ultimatum as unnecessarily harsh?’

‘Sir Henry’s ultimatum, if you please. As Lieutenant Governor of Natal it’s only right that he should issue it. But you’re right about one thing. The government wouldn’t thank me if it knew. Which is why I won’t send the details until it’s far too late. One of the chief benefits of the one-month time-lag between here and London is that, when the situation demands, we can present policy as a fait accompli. By the time the government learns the truth, we’ll have fought and won the war, and no one will be interested in its origins. I’ll be well on the way to my peerage and you’ll return home heroes.’

‘ “
To the victors the spoils”, eh, Sir Bartle?’ said Crealock.

‘Exactly so, Colonel, exactly so.
Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave. I depart for the Transvaal tomorrow and have to be up early.’

‘I must go too,’ said Chelmsford. ‘I need to speak to Colonel Bellairs about the commissariat.’

George heard the door open and close as Frere and Chelmsford departed. He was desperate to be out of the hotel and on his way to Bishopstowe with news of Frere’s diabolical plot. But the others seemed in no hurry to leave. George could hear a cork being pulled and the sound of glasses being filled.

‘I think congratulations are in order, Colonel,’ said Fynn. ‘I can’t see the Zulus wriggling out of this one. But tell me, how did you win Lord Chelmsford over to our way of thinking? When we last spoke, you said he was hopeful of a peaceful outcome.’

‘And so he was, despite Sir Bartle making it perfectly clear to us, when we stayed with him in Cape Town after the frontier war, that he was determined to conquer the Zulus. But I gradually convinced him by arguing that the Zulus posed a considerable security threat to their white neighbours and that it was better to launch first strike than to wait on events.’

‘Clever of you.
And I take it he knows nothing of our agreement to share the proceeds from the sale of Matshana’s famous herd of white cattle?’

‘Of course not.
For all his faults as a field commander, he’s the “honourable” type who would never stoop so low as to profit financially from war. More fool him.’

‘I’ll drink to that. Talking of profit and losses, I take it you’ve been avoiding the gaming tables since our last meeting.’

‘Would that it
were
so, Mr Fynn. I lost twenty pounds only two nights since. I’ve sustained considerable losses since I arrived in this blasted country, to say nothing of my debts in London. I have never known a run like it. It’s sheer bad luck, but without that cattle money, I’m sunk.’

‘Worry not, Colonel. It’s as good as ours. Here’s to a short, sharp and profitable campaign!’

‘I’ll second that!’ echoed Crealock.

George was aghast at what he had just heard. It was bad enough that Britain’s senior political and military representatives in southern Africa were plotting war against the wishes of their government. Far worse was the revelation that two of their subordinates were aiming to make money from the conflict. The only consolation for George was that it gave him a hold over Crealock, the only man who suspected his involvement in Thompson’s death. As for Durnford, he was clearly not the pacifist Fanny believed him to be, which could only help George’s cause in the battle for her affections.

With these last thoughts uppermost in mind, he waited patiently, if uncomfortably, while the two plotters worked their way through the celebratory bottle of wine. He estimated he had been there for more than two hours and was desperate to massage the circulation back into his cramped limbs. But, fearful of being caught, he was unwilling to do more than shift his position by a fraction of an inch.

Even after the pair finally left the room, he waited a good five minutes before opening the wardrobe door a crack. Both rooms were silent, and obviously empty, so George crept out of the wardrobe, grimacing with pain as the blood began to return to his stiff legs. He hobbled across the conference room as quietly as he could, tried the door and found it unlocked. He was about to leave when he remembered the memorandum that Frere had been given to read. Had they left it in the room? He decided to check, knowing how keen the bishop would be to have it. But as he tiptoed back towards the long, paper-strewn table in the centre of the room, he heard the ominous sound of the door handle turning. With no time to regain the wardrobe, he threw himself to the floor and scrambled under the table.

The door opened and footsteps rang out on the wooden floor, coming to a halt next to where George lay hidden. He could see black boots and, above them, blue trousers with two red stripes down the seam. The only officer he knew with trousers like that was Crealock. George held his breath as Crealock gathered up the documents and turned to leave. But something caused the colonel to pause. He was looking towards the ante-room. George’s heart seemed to miss a beat as he realized what Crealock had seen. The wardrobe door was open. He had forgotten to shut it.

Crealock strode over to the wardrobe and looked inside. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he roared.
‘A bloody spy!’

George knew he had just seconds to escape. Taking a deep breath, he scuttled out from the table and sprinted for the door, praying that Crealock would not recognize him from behind. His hand closed on the handle as a voice behind yelled, ‘
Stop,
or I’ll shoot!’

George spun round to see a pistol aimed at this chest. ‘So it was you,’ said Crealock. ‘You simply can’t stay out of trouble, can you?’

George looked defiant.
‘Me in trouble?
What about you and your co-conspirators? Your plan to provoke war for your own selfish ambitions is bad enough, but then you and Fynn top it with a base attempt to make money from the fighting. I had no idea you were a gambler, too, Colonel. What, I wonder, would your chief make of that?’

‘You dare to threaten me!’ roared Crealock. ‘I’ll have you flogged. May I remind you, Trooper Hart, that as a soldier you’re bound by military law, which states that passing intelligence to the enemy is an offence punishable by
death.
’

‘But the Zulus aren’t the enemy, are they? May I remind
you
,
Colonel, that
we’re not at war. Not yet, at any rate. And I had no intention of passing any information to the Zulus.’

‘So why eavesdrop on our conversation?’

‘Because I needed to know.’

‘Needed?
You’re a failed officer in your teens, little more than a soldier of fortune. Why would you
need
to know? There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?’

George said nothing.

‘Why are you so interested in the fate of the Zulus? What are they to you? Come on, out with it!’

George just glared.

‘I’ve heard the rumours, you know,’ continued Crealock. ‘I just need you to confirm them.’

‘What rumours?’

‘That the half-breed you’re staying with is actually your uncle, which makes you part black too. No wonder you’re a pet of the Colensos. I hear the prettiest daughter, Fanny, has quite a penchant for black men.’

The blood rose in George’s cheeks; if Crealock had not been holding a gun he would have flown at him. ‘How dare you suggest … ?’

‘Oh, I dare all right. You know, Hart, from the moment I met you I thought there was something not right. You looked so shifty when you first boarded the ship. And then I heard about the murder, saw you with the young girl, and it all became clear.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? Well, let’s put my suspicions to the test, shall we? Are you prepared to return to Plymouth to help the police with their enquiries?’

‘Certainly not.
I have no intention of returning to Britain in the foreseeable future.’

‘I can well imagine. Let me be frank with you. I know enough about you to send you to the gallows twice over. Your black blood certainly gives you a motive to betray the land of your birth. But I’m prepared to keep quiet about all this if you agree to say nothing about what you’ve heard today. If your friend Bishop Colenso gets wind of what we’re planning, he’ll go straight to the press; and if Chelmsford hears about my money-making scheme, he’ll sack me on the spot.
So not a word.
Do we have a deal?’

George knew Crealock had him over a barrel. The spying charge alone would see him court-martialled and end his military career for good. He had to agree. Whether he would stick to that agreement was another matter. ‘All right,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘I’ll go along with your deal. But just remember it cuts both ways.’

George spent the next week agonizing over what to do. In some ways he welcomed the harder line the authorities were taking against King Cetshwayo; but reasonable demands were one thing, an unacceptable ultimatum quite another, as it made war all but inevitable. More than once he was tempted to ride to Bishopstowe and reveal all. What held him back was the realization that it might not make any difference, that the war would still go ahead and that the loss of his career, and possibly even his life, would be for nothing. He salved his conscience by telling himself he could do more good in uniform than out, by keeping an eye on Crealock and, if it came to war, by trying to prevent the maltreatment of Zulu noncombatants. He was cheered, too, by the belief that Colonel Durnford, his chief rival for Fanny’s hand, had made much the same decision to fight rather than resign. And in the end, though he was loath to admit it, he knew that the prospect of war excited him: both the chance to put his training into practice and to prove himself against a redoubtable opponent.

He resolved at least to try and explain some of this to Fanny, and arranged to meet her in Pietermaritzburg during one of her weekly shopping trips. They had barely sat down to tea in the Queen’s Hotel, the only hostelry not full of military men, when Colonel Durnford entered the dining room wearing a Sam Browne belt complete with pistol and hunting knife. He was not dressed for peace, and looked more pugnacious still on seeing that George and Fanny were alone.

‘Anthony,’ said Fanny, her face lighting up, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’

‘Please excuse my intrusion,’ replied Durnford, trying and failing to disguise his irritation. ‘Your father told me I would find you here. I wanted you to be the first to know my news. Lord Chelmsford has offered me the command of one of his defensive columns on the Zulu border.’

Fanny gaped. ‘And you
accepted?’

Durnford’s face went red. ‘Yes, of course. Why would I not? I’m a soldier, after all. It’s my duty.’