Zulu Hart (22 page)

Returning to the house, George told his uncle of his plans.

‘Well, if it’s a military career you’re after,’ said Patrick, ‘you could do worse than join the Natal Carbineers. You won’t find a smarter, better-disciplined body of horse in southern Africa. It was formed in the fifties to protect the colony from internal rebellion and a Zulu invasion; and it was modelled on the British Yeomanry, so that many of its rank and
file
come from prominent settler families and consider themselves gentlemen. You should feel right at home.’

George chuckled.

‘And best of all,’ continued his uncle, ‘the regimental headquarters is at Pietermaritzburg.’

‘Ideal. I’ll ride over there tomorrow. Do you know who the commanding officer is?’

‘Offy Shepstone, the son of Sir Theophilus. He’s reputed to be a brilliant rider, a first-class shot and an inspiring leader of men. Most people think the Bushman’s River Pass debacle would have turned out very differently if he and not Durnford had been in command.’

Next morning found George riding down Longmarket Street past the Dutch-style Church of the Vow, built to commemorate the Boers’ victory over the Zulus at Blood River in 1838 and a relic of the town’s Voortrekker origins. The Boers, George had discovered, were also responsible for the traditional grid layout of Pietermaritzburg, with an initial eight streets intersected by six more, and all lined with ditches to irrigate the residents’ gardens from the Dorpspruit
river
. But Boer rule had only lasted for five years, and much of the architecture that greeted George on this hot August day was distinctly British in style: red-brick buildings, wrought-iron balconies, tin roofs and white picket fences.

The streets were thronged with buggies and horses, as befitted the capital of the colony, and George lost count of the number of times he felt compelled to raise his hat to passersby. Some of the
ladies
were exceedingly handsome in their white dresses and bonnets, and if George had not been so preoccupied with Fanny Colenso, he would have considered his prospects set fair. His mind, in any case, was not on women but employment. Spotting a
policeman
by the roadside, he leant from his saddle and asked directions to the headquarters of the Natal Carbineers.

‘That’s Fort Napier you’ll be wanting,’ said the bobby.

‘Turn left on Pine Street and head out of town on the Edendale Road. It’s on high ground to the southwest. You can’t miss it.’

George followed the directions to the letter and soon found himself at the gatehouse to a low red-brick fort, a Union flag hanging limply on its pole.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a red-coated sentry of the 80th Foot, his red face shiny with perspiration.

‘I’m looking for the Carbineers,’ said George.

The sentry pointed to a neat brick building to the left of the parade ground. Two sentries were on duty, smartly dressed in white spiked helmets and blue tunics, each with a shouldered carbine. Their brown leathery faces marked them as colonists, and as George entered the office, they snapped to attention.

George was impressed, and said as much to the duty sergeant. ‘We like to keep our standards high,’ he replied, ‘unlike some I could mention.’

‘The Eightieth not up to scratch, then?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say.’

‘I rather think you have.’ George knew the Carbineer sergeant had a point. The 80th had only been in Natal for a year and, like all regiments recently arrived from Britain, had a high proportion of puny young recruits. ‘I’ve come to see the commandant. Is he available?’

‘I’ll just check, sir. Who shall I say wants him?’

‘Tell him George Hart, formerly of the King’s Dragoon Guards, is here to see him.’

The sergeant disappeared into an adjoining room and was gone barely a couple of minutes. ‘He’ll see you now, sir.’

George entered the room and was met by an officer with a thin, handsome face. ‘I’m Captain Shepstone,’ he said, his white teeth contrasting with the blackness of his elegantly waxed moustache. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d
like to enlist,’ said George.

Shepstone gestured towards a chair as he returned to his own seat behind his desk. ‘Military experience is always welcome in the Carbineers, Mr Hart, but I’m afraid we have all the officers we need.’

‘That’s fine by me. I’d be happy to join as a trooper.’

‘Really?’ said Shepstone, raising one eyebrow. ‘You’re not on the run, are you?’

‘No.’

‘But you
have
held a commission.’

Yes. In the KDG, as I told your sergeant.’

‘And yet here you are, a former officer in a crack British cavalry regiment, happy to join the ranks of a part-time unit of colonial horse. Quite a step-down, is it not?’

‘Some might see it like that, but let’s just say I found the regular British Army too stuffy. In any event, from all I’ve heard and seen today, the Carbineers seem as efficient as any British cavalry regiment, and surely more suited to African warfare.’

‘Compliment accepted. And you’re right. We operate as mounted infantry, and with good reason. The African bush, with its rocky kopjes and dry riverbeds, does not lend itself to sweeping cavalry charges with lance and sabre. But you’ll excuse my probing, I’m sure. The regiment is recruited largely from farmers and landowners, men familiar with guns and ponies from childhood, and we’re a little wary of outsiders.’

‘I can understand that. And I can assure you that there is nothing in my past that would disqualify me from joining your regiment.
On the contrary.
I know the basic riding drill and can handle a sabre.’

‘Only officers use sabres, I’m afraid. Other ranks have to make do with revolvers and carbines.’

‘Well, I’ve got my own
revolver,
and a horse of course.’

‘I saw it from the window.
An English hunter, by the look of things.’

‘He’s Irish, as it happens. Like me.’

‘Irish, then.
A fine-looking beast.
But will he survive the heat of an African summer? I wonder. Most of the men are mounted on Basuto ponies. They’re small, but incredibly tough.’

‘My horse is also tough. Will you have us, Captain?’

Shepstone smiled. ‘I will. The local troop musters here for exercises twice a week, and is liable to be called out at twenty- four hours’ notice. A trooper’s pay is six shillings for every day on duty. You can draw your uniform and equipment from the quartermaster’s stores. Welcome to the Carbineers.’

Just over three weeks later was George’s nineteenth birthday, and he and his uncle had been invited to dinner by the Colensos. Although he had parted from Fanny on less than satisfactory terms, he hoped she might have reconciled herself to his point of view a little, and thought the celebration would further help his cause. Before going over to Bishopstowe, George was riding through Pietermaritzburg’s market square, on his way back from the Carbineers’ bi-weekly muster, when he spotted a familiar figure walking in the street. He was leaner than George remembered, his face tanned a deep brown, but the stooped walk was unmistakeably Gossett’s.

‘Matthew? Is that you?’ hollered George as he reined Emperor to a halt.

Gossett looked up and smiled in recognition. ‘George! My dear boy, how good to see you.’

‘The feeling’s mutual. When did you arrive? I’d heard General Thesiger was in town, but no mention of you.’

‘I arrived two days ago. Before that I was in Cape Town tying up all the loose ends from the last campaign.’

‘So what brings you all to Natal? Is it connected to the boundary award?’

‘Come and join me for a drink and I’ll explain all.’

George dismounted, tied Emperor to a hitching post and followed Gossett into the red-brick splendour of the nearby Plough Hotel. Shown to a quiet corner table of the bar, they were served whiskies and soda by an elderly waiter in a white apron.

‘Cheers,’ said Gossett, clinking glasses. ‘You look well.’

‘I am. It’s my birthday.’

‘Is it indeed.
Happy birthday!
How old?’

‘Nineteen.’

Gossett shook his head, marvelling at George’s youth. ‘I see,’ he said, eyeing George’s dark blue tunic and leather holster, ‘that you couldn’t resist the lure of the military.’

George laughed. ‘No, it helps to pass the time. And I see,’ he added, pointing at the field rank on Gossett’s collar, ‘that you got your brevet.’

‘Yes, I’m a major now, so show me some respect.’

‘Did the campaign go well?’

‘Eventually it did, George, eventually. We weren’t too late, thank God, and spent the first couple of months tramping through the Perie Bush, trying to bring Chief Sandilli’s Gaikas to battle. When that failed, the general listened to local advice and divided the area of operations into various districts, each patrolled by a mobile force. That had the desired effect, and within a few weeks we had killed or captured most of the leading rebels. We’ve just heard the general’s to be knighted. And Crealock got his lieutenant colonelcy, of course.’

George’s heart began to beat a little faster at the mention of Crealock’s name, but he tried not to let Gossett notice. ‘What about Wood and Buller?’

‘They both performed heroics: Wood as a column commander and Buller with a locally raised cavalry unit known as the Frontier Light Horse. As tough a bunch of border ruffians as you’re ever likely to meet, but Buller tamed them and is promoted to lieutenant colonel. He and Wood are en route to the Transvaal as we speak, to protect Boer settlers from the Zulus.’

‘Do they
need
protecting?’

‘Of course they do,’ said a voice behind him.

George looked round. ‘Colonel Crealock!’

‘Hello, Hart,’ said the colonel, clearly enjoying George’s discomfort. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I’d have thought, after our last chat, that you’d have made yourself scarce by now. Yet here you are, and in uniform too. Aren’t you going to salute a superior officer?’

George scrambled out of his seat and offered a hasty salute, which Crealock returned.

‘That’s better. Now where was I?’ said Crealock, pulling up a chair.
‘Oh, yes, your question about the Boers.
Surely you know about the recent border violation?’

‘Yes,’ said George, making no mention of his own involvement.

‘Well, it should be obvious even to you that the Zulus’ blood is up. There’s no knowing how they’ll react to the commission’s forthcoming boundary award, which is why the general’s moved his headquarters here.’

‘So you’re here purely as a precaution, in case the Zulus attack?’

‘Of course, though we’d appreciate a little more assistance from the lieutenant governor. Sir Henry Bulwer is so wary of provoking the Zulus that he’s refusing to let us take even the most basic measures of defence, such as bringing more regiments into Natal or raising any more troops, white or black. But he’s making a big mistake, because as things stand the colony is absolutely unprepared to meet a sudden raid of Zulus within its borders.’

A month earlier George would have dismissed such talk of a raid as warmongering.
Now, having visited Zululand and spoken to the young firebrand Mehlokazulu, he was not so sure. ‘It is being said,’ he responded cautiously, ‘that some of the younger warriors will welcome war.’

‘Exactly so, and if Cetshwayo doesn’t give them what they want, it’s possible he’ll be overthrown. Either way, we have to be ready for war.’

George left the hotel, relieved that Crealock had said no more about the Plymouth shooting, and more convinced than ever that the Zulus posed a genuine threat to Natal and that Thesiger was right to prepare for the worst.

He then made the mistake of saying exactly that during the candlelit dinner at the Colensos’ to celebrate his birthday. Perhaps it was the champagne he’d been served on top of the whisky he had drunk with Gossett, but no sooner were the words out than he regretted them. What had been a jolly, laughter-filled occasion lapsed into stunned silence. Fanny’s jaw fell open as if she could hardly believe what she was hearing.

It was left to the bishop to articulate what everyone round the table was thinking. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, George?’ he asked, disappointment etched in his craggy face. ‘You sound as if you now support this shameless manoeuvring for war.’

All eyes turned to George to await his response. Guest of honour or no, he knew he was in danger of offending his friends, and so chose his words carefully. ‘Given my ties of blood to the Zulus, I would never support the launch of an unprovoked war,’ he said, looking directly at Fanny, who was seated opposite him. ‘But taking sensible defensive precautions does make sense. The feeling in the Carbineers is that we’ll be called out any day now.’

‘You still don’t understand our government’s true aim, do you?’ said the bishop. ‘This build-up of troops has only one purpose: the invasion of Zululand.’

‘I don’t agree. I know from my recent trip that the younger warriors are very volatile at the moment. Anything could happen.’

‘What utter rot! I don’t condone what Sihayo’s sons did, but a raid to recover a runaway is very different from a full- scale invasion. And to put the raid into perspective, you should be aware that - until a couple of years ago - the Natal authorities regarded Zulu refugee wives as chattel goods and routinely returned them. Only last year a party of Zulus crossed the Tugela to kidnap a refugee girl, and we merely informed Cetshwayo of the “crime”. Moreover, our police have often crossed into Zululand in pursuit of fleeing Kaffirs. So it’s a bit rich to expect
Cetshwayo,
or Sihayo for that matter, to take our recent demands seriously.’