by Saul David
'Who is it?'
'George.'
The door opened to reveal Lucy in a nightdress, her curly chestnut hair loose on her shoulders. 'Thank God you've come. I can't get the memory of that poor wounded man out of my head.'
George raised a finger to his lips and shooed her back into the cabin. 'I know how you feel. But you must be careful what you say because that poor wounded man is now dead.'
'How can you be sure?'
George repeated what Captain Wilson had told him. 'Luckily it was still dark,' he added, 'so they don't know what we look like.'
'But they know we're a couple and that we made for the docks,' said a wide-eyed Lucy. 'Thank God you gave me money to buy my own ticket. If we'd gone in to the ticket office together we'd certainly have been caught.'
'Yes, so from now on we must avoid each other's company as much as possible. They're looking for a couple. We must make it seem like we've never met.'
'I'm scared, George,' said Lucy, 'I don't want to be alone.'
George noticed her dilated pupils. Of course, he thought, she's also in shock: first the attempted rape, then the shooting. It would take time for both of them to recover, but now was not the moment to take risks. 'I'd like to stay but I can't,' he said tenderly. 'Imagine if I was seen leaving your cabin in the morning. I'll call again as soon as it's safe to do so.'
'When will that be?'
'Soon.'
Back in his own cabin, George spent a fitful night regretting his caution. He lay awake for hours, tormented by images of the dying man gasping like a fish on a block; and when he finally did get to sleep he dreamt of Lucy, her body naked, her hair fanned out on the pillow beneath her.
George woke with a start. It was 6.30 a.m. and time to check on Emperor. On his way down to the horsedeck, he heard raised voices. He entered an open hatchway to investigate and found himself in a dark, cavernous room, festooned with hammocks and packs. The room was deserted but for three men to the left of the hatchway. Two of them had their backs to George and were pinning the other man up against the bulkhead, their spare hands raised in fists. Their victim, fair- haired and a good six inches taller than either, looked strangely unconcerned.
'What's going on here?' said George in his best parade- ground voice.
The shorter of the aggressors glanced round, decided George was not an officer, and replied, 'It's not your concern, so bugger off.'
George's anger flared. 'Well, I'm about to make it my concern. Now let him go or I'll—'
'You'll what?' said the same soldier, a dark wiry man with a distinctive Welsh accent.
George took a step forward and planted a right hook into the soldier's stomach, causing him to double up in pain.
'Now salute, damn you,' said George, 'or is that no longer the fashion in the Twenty-Fourth?' Though all three were wearing the anonymous sea kit of blue serge issued to soldiers in transit, he had spotted the tell-tale '24' badge on their woollen caps.
Both aggressors snapped to attention and saluted, their victim following suit but with less precision. 'Begging your pardon, sir,' said the soldier he had punched. 'I didn't know you was an officer, like.'
George ignored him, addressing the tall soldier instead. 'Why were they threatening you?'
'I wouldn't like to say, sir,' said the soldier softly, with only a hint of a Welsh lilt.
'Would you not? Well, we'll see about that. Come with me!' George had enough experience of ordinary soldiers to know they never blabbed. His question had put the tall man in an impossible position and he regretted it at once. Far better, he knew, to quiz him in private, so George made his way down to the horsedeck, the tall soldier in his wake.
There was no sign of Pickering and, from force of habit, George entered Emperor's stall and took up a body brush and a currycomb. Emperor's coat was immaculate, and hardly needed grooming, but George knew that a good rub-down would keep his muscles warm.
'What's your name?' he asked the soldier, as he ran the brush in rhythmic strokes from Emperor's forelock to his withers, removing the accumulated hair with the currycomb.
'Private Thomas, sir.'
'Not your rank, your Christian name.'
'Owen, sir.'
'And don't call me sir. I'm not an officer.'
'But you said—'
George interjected. 'I simply asked whether it was still the fashion in your regiment to salute. I at no time declared myself an officer.'
'You implied—'
'That I may have done, it's true.' Having finished brushing Emperor's neck, George moved on to his flank. 'What about you? I'd hazard we're close in age, so you can't have been in the army long.'
'I'm nineteen years and took the shilling last September.'
George smiled at the coincidence, for he had joined his regiment that very month. 'Where are you from?'
'Monmouthshire.'
'I know Monmouthshire. Have you heard of the Morgans of Tredegar Park? They own a colliery.'
'I have, sir. I hail from Raglan, but some of my cousins work in the Tredegar colliery. They say old Mr Morgan is a fair employer.'
'I'm glad to hear it. His son Jake is a friend of mine. He's an officer in the Second Battalion of the Twenty-Fourth. Are you bound for the First or Second Battalion?'
'The Second.'
'Well, who knows, you may be assigned to his company.'
'That I may,' said Thomas.
George gestured with his head towards the deck above. 'So what was that all about?'
'Oh, nothing, a bit of harmless chat. They're the Davies brothers from Trewern, and difficult to tell apart, so I call them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They aren't amused.'
'I'm sure they aren't. If you don't mind me saying so, Thomas, you don't strike me as a typical army recruit. You seem far too sensible.'
Thomas grinned. 'All thanks to my mam. She kept me at school when my pa wanted me to work with him in the fields.'
'So you can read and write?'
'That I can.'
'Well, that's more than most of the NCOs in the King's Dragoon Guards can manage. So why enlist? It can't be for the ten shillings a week. You could do better than that.'
'No, it's not for the money. I enlisted for adventure. My mam hoped I'd become a schoolteacher, but I want to see the world.'
'As good a reason as any, I suppose. But how do you put up with barrack-room life?'
'It's not too bad, and certainly no worse than growing up in a big family. I'm one of ten and had to share a bed with three brothers. In the army I get my own bed, clean sheets once a month and a new straw mattress every quarter. And I get enough to eat, as well, though bread and meat can get monotonous, and we have to pay for our vegetables.'
'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 intelligen
ce 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.'
Chapter 6
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.'
