Dallas had seen the same after Kambula Hill, a sight that had disgusted him. He wondered if Boyd was there. Probably.
‘They burned the royal kraal. I believe Wolseley will headquarter there until the king is captured. Chelmsford has requested that he be returned to England. It’s over.’
John spent the night. After dinner, weary, and more than slightly drunk and angry, he admitted his true feelings. The three sat sprawled in front of a logfire. Outside, unseasonal drizzle fell. It was not, strictly speaking, cold outside – although it looked it. The fire was a comforting diversion. Coming from upstairs, the children’s voices were, for once, in accord.
‘What now, John?’ Dallas asked. ‘Any word of the king?’
Dunn shook his head. ‘He moves from kraal to kraal. His supporters lay false trails.’
‘It can’t continue.’
‘Cetshwayo knows that. By evading capture, he is trying to give his people their pride back. The king has always put his nation and the House of Shaka before anything else.’ Dunn rose unsteadily and swayed to the sideboard, banging his glass down and reaching for a decanter. Turning, he leaned back for support and went on. ‘The Zulus have dominated southern Africa for centuries.’ Dunn wagged a finger at his friends. ‘So what’s it to be? Do we defeat them only to sit back while they rise again, more powerful than before? Or have we lost something that can never be replaced?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Let me tell you what I think. The British aren’t stupid. They plan to fragment the Zulu people under different chiefs. They have chosen well, selecting those who already fight among themselves. When it doesn’t work, Wolseley, or whoever, will claim the Zulus cannot run their own affairs, annex the territory and take control. These people need their king and unity if they are to remain strong. That will be impossible.’
John was only confirming what Dallas already knew. ‘I believe that you are to be one such chief.’
‘How the hell do you know?’
‘I spoke to Wolseley. He made no secret of it. Even suggested that I approach you for land.’
John moved back to his chair and sunk into it. ‘Idiotic man.’ He took a large swallow of scotch. ‘And I agreed,’ he slurred. ‘Me! The one who tried to warn Cetshwayo not to trust the British.’ Bleary eyes turned towards Dallas. ‘They give a mealie with one hand then take a whole bloody field with the other. Yes, I will be responsible for a kingdom.’ he sneered at the word. ‘That was the prize. I fell for it, as they knew I would. Then the conditions came.’ He fell silent, staring moodily into the fire.
‘I saw a map in Wolseley’s office. Your land is the buffer zone.’
‘Got it in one, my friend.’ He held up his glass. ‘Would you mind?’
Dallas rose and topped it up. If anyone deserved to get totally drunk, it was John.
‘Thanks.’ He took another gulp. His eyes became slits as he tried to stay awake. ‘Chief John Dunn,’ he mocked, saluting himself. ‘Any idea how many clans live in that chunk of land? Five. Where the hell do they go when it’s taken from them by the British?’ His head dropped. ‘I’ve sold them out,’ he mumbled.
Dallas lunged as the crystal glass slipped from the man’s fingers.
Lorna brought a footstool. They removed his boots, covered him with a blanket and left him snoring.
Cetshwayo eluded capture for nearly two months. He was finally found in the Ngome forest, north of the Black Mfolozi River, and taken to Ulundi. There, Wolseley informed the Zulu king that he had been deposed. He was sent to Cape Town, where he remained a prisoner for three years.
Wolseley wasted no time. He told the two hundred or so clan chiefs that Zululand would be sectioned into thirteen kingdoms, the rulers of which would be chosen by him. New rules and regulations were announced. British rules which only the British understood. Bewildered Zulus could only attempt to comply with them.
Boyd returned to Durban with no more understanding of Africa and her people, black or white, than he had when he arrived. He spoke excitedly of a glorious victory, never once acknowledging Zulu courage or the fact that they were completely out-gunned. Instead, he tended to denigrate Cetshwayo’s impi as being brainless buffoons who had got what they deserved.
He turned up one day with a young man who looked vaguely familiar. It was Nesbit Pool, who had been a co-traveller on the Marie Clare and who had joined the 17th Lancers in Cape Town.
‘Says he knows you, old boy,’ Boyd said.
Dallas stared at the young man, at his red-rimmed eyes, shaking hands and a nervous habit of shrugging first one shoulder then the other. He’d arrived in Africa a fresh-faced, keen ensign. He was now a lance corporal with shot nerves. ‘Pleased to see you again,’ said Dallas.
‘Y-y-yes,’ Pool stammered.
‘Bit shell-shocked,’ Boyd explained comfortably, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘Spot of home leave will put him right.’
Dallas doubted it. The barely controlled hysteria in Pool’s eyes bordered on madness.
‘He was at Isandlwana,’ Boyd added in an undertone.
‘Don’t tell me they sent him to Ulundi in this state?’
‘Of course, old boy. Where else? A man has his duty.’
He belongs in a straitjacket. Dallas didn’t voice his thought. Pool’s condition was simply another example of suffering. There’d been plenty of that.
Just before Boyd returned to Scotland, Dallas told him that Lord de Iongh had dropped the charges against him. Boyd was flabbergasted when both his brother and Lorna said they intended to stay in Africa and that Scotland was the last place in the world they wanted to be.
‘But, dear lady, your inheritance.’
‘Bugger it,’ Lorna said carelessly. ‘My father lives on the estate now. It means nothing to me.’
Boyd left Africa convinced that his brother and the woman who lived as his wife were both completely mad.
Dallas and Lorna acquired land, nearly two thousand acres, on the Mhlathuze River, near the tiny coastal settlement of Richard’s Bay. It was as Wolseley had said. Mention sugar, and land would be found. John Dunn was delighted to have them there. They were two people he could count on, who understood the Zulus and would help them adjust. When it became obvious that Dallas had little interest in planting cane – only one-fifth of his property carried the crop, the rest ran cattle – Dunn conveniently ignored the terms of his friend’s title. Both he and Dallas knew that Zulu men would refuse work in canefields as being beneath them, though they would happily tend to cattle.
The farm was called Morningside, after a district of Edinburgh. Lorna and Dallas took up residence two months after Frazer was born.
A few weeks before the move, Cecily Jerome returned from her west coast wanderings to write up all she had seen and learned. With her was Stephen Holgate, still smitten despite being fifteen years the woman’s junior. Lorna and Dallas were invited to lunch.
‘No cracks about age,’ Lorna warned as their carriage turned into Cecily’s drive.
‘Who, me?’
Cecily and Stephen waited on the front steps, arm-in-arm.
‘Hello, old girl, nice to have you back.’ Dallas only just managed to contain a grunt of pain as Lorna’s elbow found his ribs.
‘Right.’ Cecily came down the steps and stood, hands on hips. ‘Very funny, Dallas. Let’s get this straight. Stephen is twenty-eight. I’m forty-three. We don’t have a problem with it. What’s yours?’
‘Just teasing.’ Dallas threw Lorna an injured look. ‘Honest,’ he added when she refused to glance at him.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, you two.’ Cecily turned and strode back to a grinning Stephen. ‘Are you coming in for lunch or not?’
It turned into an hilarious and relaxed afternoon. Cecily and Stephen, far from trying to justify their relationship, acted as though it was nothing out of the ordinary. The two were obviously in love and didn’t care who knew it. Late in the afternoon Lorna and Dallas returned home in mellow mood.
App
roaching their house, Dallas noticed a carriage standing outside. It drove off in great haste as they approached. Dallas frowned. Instinct told him something was amiss and he urged the horses to go faster. Driven by an African, the lone occupant was little more than a shadowy figure, his hat pulled down, coat collar turned up. As their carriage drew closer, Dallas felt a shiver of apprehension. There was something familiar about the man. He slowed the horses and turned into their drive.
‘Did you see the man in that brougham? I could have sworn . . .’ Dallas shook his head. ‘It can’t be. He’s supposed to be dead.’
‘No, and I’ve no idea who you are talking about.’
‘Jeremy Hardcastle.’
‘What!’ Lorna had turned quite pale. ‘It can’t be. Anyway, why would he be hanging around here?’
‘I don’t know, but if it was him, there’s bound to be a bad reason for his appearance.’
Inside, all appeared well. Queenie was attending to Frazer. Duncan, Kate and Ellie were playing pick-up-sticks in the parlour. Cam had gone to a friend’s house and Torben sat in his room reading. There had been no callers and no-one had seen anything suspicious.
Dallas pushed his concerns aside. The rumours that Jette and Hardcastle were dead had been convincing. The hasty departure of a carriage changed nothing; it was probably nothing more than a coincidence.
Two days later, Percy announced that a Mr Jeremy Hardcastle was calling on them.
While they waited for him to be shown in, Lorna and Dallas instinctively drew together. The visit could only mean one thing – Torben.
As he entered the room Lorna could not hold back a gasp of surprise. Hardcastle walked slowly, with a pronounced limp. He leaned heavily on a cane, without which the man would possibly have fallen. The left side of his face was badly scarred, the skin livid and puckered. A continuous scar ran through one eye down to his neck. The eye itself appeared sightless, a strange milky colour. It was pulled out of shape, the lid stretched and stuck in a half-closed position. His mouth was also twisted. There were no lips from one corner until nearly the centre of it. Teeth and gums showed through in a permanent grimace. Whatever had caused such injuries should have killed the man.
Hardcastle was only a few years older than Dallas but his hair had turned white. It grew thick on the right side but at the top and left, only small tufts poked through the shiny evidence of severe burns.
Despite a history of distrust and dislike between them, Dallas felt some sympathy for the man. He had obviously suffered terribly. ‘We heard you were dead.’
‘As you can see, I’m very much alive.’ The voice was a rasp, the words, forced through lips that didn’t work properly, ill-formed and indistinct.
‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ Hardcastle juggled the stick with limbs unwilling to do his bidding. Dallas had to force himself not to assist. The man might resent it. He wondered how Hardcastle managed to get in and out of a carriage. Settled at last, his relief was evident. Standing obviously hurt.
‘Jette sends her regards.’ It was almost a whisper.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
Hardcastle swallowed with difficulty. ‘Fire,’ he said briefly. Then, ‘Could I trouble you for a little wine? It helps ease my throat.’
Dallas poured and handed him the glass. He noticed that the man’s left hand was also scarred, the fingers, or what was left of them, misshapen.
‘What is it that you seek here?’
The ruined mouth stretched into what Dallas could only presume was a smile. ‘Charming as usual, Granger.’
‘We are not friends,’ Dallas said bluntly. ‘You have clearly suffered a great deal. For that, I am sorry. It does not, however, change anything between us. I repeat, what brings you here?’
Hardcastle drank some wine before replying. Some ran down his chin, which he dabbed at with a white handkerchief. He drank and dabbed again, although this time he had managed to swallow it all. Dallas realised that the man had little or no feeling left on his face and no idea whether he dribbled or not. Finally, Hardcastle answered the question. ‘Jette wishes that her son be returned.’
In a rustle of silk, Lorna took up a determined stance in front of their unexpected guest. ‘Just like that?’ Her voice held anger. ‘You drop him off here and then, eight years later, think you can walk in and take him from us. Think again, Mr Hardcastle, for it is not my inclination to oblige.’
Jeremy Hardcastle’s right eye blinked. Something like panic passed across it. ‘Jette is his mother.’
‘And Dallas his father. We have fed, clothed, educated and loved Torben all this time. He is a part of our family. Have either of you considered his feelings? He believes his mother to be dead. Jette lost any claim to Torben when she abandoned him.’ Bright flushes of pink glowed on Lorna’s cheeks. ‘I’ll see you both in hell before handing him over.’
Hardcastle was unimpressed by her outburst. ‘Beware, madam, for such words could turn and haunt you.’
‘Is that a threat, Mr Hardcastle?’ Lorna tossed her head.
Dallas intervened. ‘Keep a civil tongue, Hardcastle. You are in no position to throw your weight around. I’ll not tolerate you threatening my wife.’
‘Wife!’ the hoarse voice croaked. ‘Hardly that.’
Lorna moved away, her expression one of resolve. ‘It would seem,’ she said to Dallas, as if no-one else was in the room, ‘that Mr Hardcastle has learned few manners in his travels. He comes here demanding Torben, yet appears quite willing to insult those who have raised him. One would think – no, expect – that some humility might be appropriate. After all, abandoning the boy was his idea.’
‘I had good reason,’ Hardcastle rasped, allowing his anger to show. ‘As you can see from my face, the sultan would do anything to punish Jette.’
‘If that is so, it makes more sense for us to keep him here,’ Lorna snapped.
Again, the mouth stretched in its parody of a smile. ‘The sultan is dead. With him died his desire for revenge.’ A fit of violent coughing overtook Hardcastle, quelled finally by his draining the glass of wine.
‘Where is Jette?’ Dallas demanded, almost snatching the glass to refill it. Handing the wine back, he added, ‘Why did she not come for Torben herself?’
‘She is . . .’ Hardcastle’s eyes slid away. ‘Indisposed. Nothing serious. A slight cold.’
Suspicion now thoroughly aroused, Dallas sought to get rid of the man. ‘I will not discuss this further. Jette would never allow a mere sniffle to prevent her from seeing her son. You’re lying, Hardcastle. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t trust you. If Jette is party to your schemes and wishes to see Torben, then she is to come here herself. I will judge her sincerity.’
The scarred face turned puce. ‘You’ll give me the boy now or, by God, I’ll take him myself.’
‘That’s it.’ Dallas grasped Hardcastle’s upper arms and pulled him from the chair. He saw pain pass over the ruined face but was too angry to care. ‘Get out before I throw you out.’
‘For God’s sake, just let me take the boy,’ Hardcastle pleaded, staggering slightly, then finding his balance.
‘No!’ Lorna shouted furiously. ‘Torben is not a possession to be passed back and forth. He has made his life with us and I will not allow you to interfere.’
‘Madam, you sorely try my patience. Were you mine I’d be teaching you a lesson with this.’ He brandished his cane.
Dallas didn’t wait. No-one threatened the woman he loved. One hand on Hardcastle’s back, the other holding his good arm, he propelled the man through the front door and slammed it behind him. He was smiling slightly when he returned.
‘What’s so funny?’ Lorna asked peevishly, still fuming.
‘I don’t believe he’s moved that fast since he was hurt.’
She snorted, covered her mouth, then giggled through her fingers. ‘You’re terrible,’ she managed.
‘Dallas the dastardly,’ he agreed amia
bly. ‘No-one speaks to you like that. No-one.’
She wrapped her arms around him and snuggled against his chest. After only a few seconds, she pulled abruptly back. ‘Torben! He’s still at school but due home any moment. If Hardcastle sees him he might . . . Oh, Dallas!’
He was out of the room almost before she finished, riding to the school so hard his horse was a lather of sweat. Torben, about to leave, looked astonished to see his father. Dallas felt relief sweep over him that the boy was safe. Dismounting, he waited for Torben to reach him. ‘Mind if I walk with you? There’s something we have to talk about.’
Torben’s expression was hard to read as Dallas told him that his mother might still be alive.
‘According to Mr Hardcastle, she wants you back.’ Dallas chose his words with care. ‘I don’t trust the man. However, it’s only fair that you be apprised of the situation.’
‘Would you give me back?’ The voice held neither excitement nor apprehension.
‘Only if it were your wish,’ Dallas said cautiously. ‘We would not stand in your way if you decided to live with your mother. But, my boy, I’d need to be satisfied it would be in your best interests.’
‘So you would give me away?’ This time there was confusion in the tone.
Dallas slapped a hand against his horse’s still foaming flank. ‘When we realised that Mr Hardcastle might see you coming home and try to take you with him, I rode like hell. Damn it, Torben, I don’t want to lose you, son. It would break my heart if you went back to your mother.’
‘What about Aunt Lorna?’
‘Hers too. Believe me, she loves you as much as I do.’
There was a long silence. Then, in a small voice, Torben said, ‘I want to stay with you.’
Dallas felt his heart soar. He stopped and smiled down at the anxious eyes. ‘And so you shall.’
Shadows in the Grass Page 54
