by Saul David
To George it felt as if the ship was hurtling towards the very bottom of the ocean, only to brought up short as the lowest point of the trough was struck with a sickening jolt. He lay on his bunk with legs and arms braced, to prevent him from being flung to the floor, where he had long since deposited his dinner. Hour after hour the storm raged on. George eventually fell asleep exhausted, and when he woke it seemed as if the howl of the wind was a little less shrill. Though still dark, he decided to risk leaving his cabin to check that Lucy was all right, and soon regretted his foolishness as the ship surfed down the face of yet another huge wave, sending him crashing into the door of the opposite cabin. Shaken but unhurt, he carried on his precarious way, clinging to the rail that ran alongside the stairs.
He eventually found his way to Lucy's door and knocked twice. No response. He tried the handle and found it unlocked. Lucy was lying face down on the bunk, wearing nothing but a petticoat, her skin a sickly green. In normal circumstances the sight of a scantily clad beauty would have set George's pulse racing. But these circumstances were anything but normal.
'It's me,' he said. 'Are you all right?'
She groaned in response. 'George, thank God you've come. I've never felt so ill. Please, sit with me a while?'
He sat on the bed next to her, holding her clammy hand. 'I can't stay for long. Someone might come and, in any case, I need to check on Emperor before the storm worsens.' He felt her grip tighten as if she would never let go. 'All right,' he conceded. 'I'll stay for a short time. Close your eyes and try and get some sleep.'
She looked so vulnerable lying there that, for a brief moment, George considered changing his mind about not taking her with him to Natal. But it would be hard enough making his own way in a strange land; Lucy was an encumbrance he could not afford. He stayed there, stroking her hair, until the evenness of her breathing told him she had fallen asleep. He gently loosened her grip and left the cabin. As he did so he heard the sound of footsteps at the end of the corridor.
He froze in the doorway, silently praying that the person would pass by without glancing in his direction. No such luck. 'Hart?' said Major Crealock. 'What are you doing here?'
'I've, um . . . I've been visiting a friend.'
'I didn't know you had any friends on board, and in second class too.'
George knew he was in a tight spot and tried to stay calm. 'She's ... er ... a recent acquaintance.'
'Not that girl I saw you talking to on deck?'
'Yes. I was just making sure she was all right.'
'Of course you were,' said Crealock, a knowing look on his face. 'None of my business, of course.'
'No. Well, if you'll excuse me,' said George, squeezing past Crealock on to the main stairway, 'I've got to check on my horse.'
As he continued down into the bowels of the ship, George cursed his bad luck and prayed that Crealock had swallowed his line about an on-board dalliance and was none the wiser. Had he, though?
From the main mess deck came the sound of men moaning and a smell George would never forget: a repulsive mixture of burning oil from the lamps, bilge water and vomit. George hurried by and soon found himself in the dark, fetid atmosphere of the horsedeck. The animals were whinnying piteously; all except Emperor, who was standing wide-eyed, trying desperately to keep his feet. The groom was at his side, adjusting the sling.
'Everything all right?' asked George.
'He's fine, Mr Hart,' said the groom. 'But we've already had to destroy one animal that fell and broke his leg, so I'm just tightening the sling to be sure.'
'Well done. And don't forget to give him regular doses of vinegar. Seasickness is the biggest killer.'
His duty done, George retraced his steps, each ten yards a hazardous procedure. The wind had risen again, and the passageways were empty but for a couple of green-looking crew members. George felt only relief as he at last regained his cabin and slumped wearily into his bunk. The ordeal, however, had just begun.
The gale lasted for two more days, and even when it was over, the traumatized passengers took some time to emerge from their respective billets. George was among the first to dine, his appetite merely sharpened by so long without food. And as he ate, with only a handful of the ship's officers for company, his thoughts turned to Lucy. How was she feeling? Would she forgive him for not returning to check on her? He had wanted to, more than once. But the chance encounter with Crealock had shaken him and left him unwilling to risk a repeat.
At dinner the following evening, with almost all the first-class passengers now well enough to attend, Captain Wilson announced that they would reach Cape Town on the morrow, and that if anyone wanted to see the famous Table Mountain they would need to be up at daybreak, because the early morning mist would obscure it for much of the day. George when they docked of Lucy, who would be disembarking when they docked, and realized it was his last opportunity to say goodbye to her. Was it worth the risk? He decided that it was.
He made it to her cabin unobserved and, sitting by her on the bunk, proceeded to declare his admiration for her as a person and his sadness that they would soon be parted. Fighting back tears, Lucy thanked him for all his support and wished him luck in Africa. 'But given the bond between us since the unfortunate shooting,' she added, 'I don't understand why we can't pool our resources and travel together.'
George repeated his old argument about needing to travel light, and not wanting to be encumbered by a woman, but even he sounded unconvinced. 'I'll be honest with you, Lucy,' he said at last. 'We've been through a fair bit together, and I owe you that. Truth is, I only have enough money to keep myself. I know it sounds selfish, but there it is.'
'It is selfish. I won't be a financial burden to you, if that's what you're worried about. I can earn my own keep.'
I'm sure you can. But there are things I need to do alone. Things connected to my past.'
'What things?'
'It's a very long and . . . involved story.'
'I'm not in any hurry.'
'All right,' said George after a pause, 'but I must leave before sun-up.'
George was reticent at first, and gave only the barest outline of his childhood and time at Sandhurst. But the more he talked about events since then, the more he realized there were issues he needed to resolve. Could he, for example, ever really forgive his mother for deceiving him? How did he feel about his Zulu blood? And did he really believe his military career was over?
Once again, Lucy showed an intelligence that belied her upbringing, quickly seeing George's dilemma. 'You talk about going to South Africa to claim your inheritance and make your fortune, and maybe you will. But from all you've said it's obvious that your real interest lies with the army. Why, your face lights up at the mere mention of a war.'
'I don't know about that,' said George, reddening. 'Anyway, that's all in the past. My only plan now is to meet my uncle and see which way the land lies in Natal. What about you? Have you thought about what you'll do?'
'Well, first I'll see if I can get a job in Cape Town,' she said, 'and if that goes well, and I manage to save some money, I might see what Kimberley has to offer.'
'Good idea. There are bound to be opportunities for a woman with beauty and resource like you. And, you never know, we might meet again in Kimberley.'
'I hope so,' said Lucy, a thin smile on her face. 'Now you'd better go. It's almost dawn.'
George leant forward to kiss her cheek, but she turned at the last and their lips met. There was something about the urgency of the kiss that made him think again about leaving her, but he convinced himself there were things he needed to do alone.
Her eyes were still closed as he rose from the bunk. 'Goodbye, Lucy,' he said, holding the door slightly ajar.
She had buried her face in her hands and her reply, muffled by sobs, was almost inaudible.
That evening, after a little under four weeks at sea, the SS American steamed into Table Bay and dropped anchor opposite Cape Town. George had never seen a more
spectacular setting for a port, its elegant seafront framed by the steeply sided, flat-topped peak known as Table Mountain. As bum- boats swarmed around the ship, bringing supplies and news, he stood alone on the poopdeck, transfixed by the view; and there he remained until the red glow of the setting sun had receded behind the mountain.
In the morning a handful of passengers disembarked, Lucy and General Thesiger among them. The general and the rest of the soldiers were going straight to the front, and would leave the ship for good further up the coast at East London; but as the American was not scheduled to depart for another two days, Thesiger was taking the opportunity to call on Sir Bartle Frere, the Governor of Cape Colony, at his official residence on the outskirts of Cape Town.
George watched from the side of the ship as the lifeboat edged closer to the shore. He was desperate for Lucy to turn and acknowledge him one last time with a smile or a wave. But she did not, and he eventually lost sight of her amidst the bustle of the port.
'Such a shame,' said a voice beside him. He turned and found himself face to face with Major Crealock.
'What are you talking about?' said George sharply.
'You and your friend having to part. It's too sad.'
'I'm sure I don't know what you mean?'
' What I mean,' said Crealock, 'is that you and the young lady boarded separately at Plymouth and yet you obviously know each other. Quite a coincidence, don't you think, given that the authorities at Plymouth were looking for a young couple in connection with the murder of that private detective?'
George could feel the colour rising in his cheeks. 'We met on board.'
'So you say. I wonder what Captain Wilson would make of it all.'
'Now hold on a minute. You've got entirely the wrong end of the stick.'
'Have I? You're sure about that?' said Crealock, before stalking off. The note of menace in his voice had been obvious.
George's instinct was to get off the ship as quickly as possible. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Crealock did not actually know anything. Having seen George coming out of Lucy's cabin, he had put two and two together and come up with four. But where was the proof that either of them was involved in Thompson's death? Crealock did not have any. And with Lucy ashore it would be even harder to link them to the murder scene. The best course, George decided, was to ignore Crealock and continue with his trip as planned. Anything else would invite suspicion.
That evening, Thesiger returned to the ship; the news, as far as the officers were concerned, was far from welcome. After five months of trying, General Cunynghame had at last managed to clear the rebels out of the Perie Bush, a trackless terrain in the Eastern Cape, by using mixed columns of British troops, sailors, colonial volunteers, police and friendly natives. The rebel leaders were trapped; no further resistance was expected. That, at least, was the latest information from Cunynghame's headquarters at King Witham's Town.
Thesiger was unconvinced. 'Mark my words, gentlemen,' he announced to his staff at dinner. 'When a general says to his successor that the war is over and you needn't have bothered turning up, he's doing it to save face. Truth is, until Kreli, Sandilli and the other rebel leaders are actually in the bag, the fighting will continue. So don't look too glum!'
It was easier said than done, particularly for Captain Gossett. 'I can't believe I've come all this way and the fighting's as good as over,' he told George with a shake of his head as the ship weighed anchor the following morning.
'That's not how your chief sees it.'
'No. But I fear it's wishful thinking. He's as determined as the rest of us to make a name for himself. I know it's hard to believe, but I haven't been on the warpath since the Mutiny. Twenty-three years a soldier and just a single step in rank. This might be my last opportunity to win a brevet.'
'I wouldn't fret. Colonel Wood seems to think the Zulus will be your next opponents.'
'Does he now?' said Gossett, his features brightening. 'That would be a war worth fighting. The Zulus are seen as the most formidable opponents in southern Africa.'
'Yes,' said George, 'and they're not called the Black Spartans for nothing. I'd be careful what you wish for.'
Chapter 7
East London, Cape Colony, 4 March 1878
The wind howled in the rigging as the helmsman fought to keep the ship from turning broadside to the high rollers that kept coming, at ever-shorter intervals, from the northeast. The sails had been furled, leaving the ship on steam power alone, but the combination of a southwest current and a southeaster breeze was rolling the ship so violently that it seemed only a matter of time before the yards went under.
'I'm sorry, General Thesiger,' said Captain Wilson, his double-breasted pea-jacket glistening with a fine sea spray. 'There's not a hope of landing you in this wind. We'll have to bear away until the weather improves.'
'You don't understand,' said Thesiger, peering anxiously through the saloon windows towards the white buildings of East London, less than half a mile distant. 'I must land today. The war's coming to an end and it wouldn't do to miss it altogether.'
'That's as may be. But there's a sandbank between us and the port and it's far too dangerous to cross it in these conditions. The surfboat is useless in high winds and I can't risk the lifeboat. You'd never make it.'
By morning the wind had dropped sufficiently for an attempt to land General Thesiger and his military secretary, Crealock, by lifeboat. Captain Wilson was still against the idea, citing the strength of the current, but Thesiger insisted.
Sensing some drama, the ship's company gathered on the main deck to watch the two officers descend by the stern ladder to the lifeboat below. Before Crealock climbed over the side, he sought out George from the throng of onlookers. 'I just wanted to say,' murmured the major, 'that your secret's safe with me.'
George watched Crealock depart with a mixture of loathing and relief. He had never been more pleased to see the back of someone, and could not help wishing for some terrible accident to befall the man. It soon seemed as if he might get his wish. As the little boat approached the foaming line of water that marked the sandbar, its crew of rowers were fighting hard to keep it from turning side-on to the waves that followed each other in quick succession.
'They'll never make it,' muttered George with a shake of his head.
At that moment, just yards from the bar, the rudder slipped from the helmsman's grasp and the lifeboat turned broadside to the waves. 'Right yourself, you fools,' shouted Gossett. 'Before it's too late!'
They could see the crew, all hard-drinking, foul-mouthed men from the slums of Cape Town, pulling desperately on their oars to bring the boat around. Thesiger and Crealock were sitting towards the rear of the boat with shoulders hunched, powerless to avert the approaching calamity. The next wave was just feet away, a huge roller that threatened to swamp the flimsy craft. It struck the rear quarter of the lifeboat and sent it hurtling over the bar. His view obscured by the foam and spray, George held his breath. A part of him wanted the craft to sink, so that Crealock would be silenced for ever; but the others would die too, and he did not wish for that. So when, miraculously, the lifeboat bobbed back into view, its crew rowing hard for the shore, George joined the huge cheer that rose spontaneously from the watching passengers and crew. It died in his throat as Crealock celebrated his escape from danger with a dismissive wave of his hand.
With Thesiger and Crealock safely ashore, preparations were made to disembark the remaining soldiers and their kit by the safer, but more laborious means of the surfboat, an eighty-ton lighter with a central hatchway. Again George was a fascinated onlooker as the first batch of men and equipment was passed down the side of the ship, by means of the stern ladder and a derrick, and into the hold of the surfboat, amidst a hubbub of shouts and oaths. With its cargo safely stowed, the surfboat was towed by steam-tug to a buoy, where it picked up a hawser made from coconut husk, one end anchored inside the bar and the other out to sea. The hawser was then pass
ed over sheaves in two posts on the deck, fore and aft, and secured with iron pins.
'Haul away!' hollered the surfboat's white skipper, and his ten-man crew, their naked black bodies shiny with sweat and spray, began to heave the boat towards the shore, hand over hand along the hawser. At the bar the surfboat seemed to stop with a jolt, as if it had struck sand. But the next wave swept it over into the smooth water beyond.
