Saul David - Zulu Hart (George Hart)

ZuluHart

Saul David

Table of Contents

Dublin,1 October 1859

I shall neverset foot in a theatre again, vowed the tall, well- dressed occupant of thehansom cab as it drew up in front of No. 27 Connaught Square. Casting his eyesup to the warmly illuminated windows of the elegant townhouse, he drew a deep,determined breath. Ever since meeting his wife Louisa twenty years earlier, hehad had a penchant for actresses . But a liaison wasone thing, a bastard quite another. Fully resolved to keep the child's existencea secret, he opened the cab door and stepped down to the pavement. 'Wait here,'he told the driver, perched high above the cab.

The shiny blackdoor was opened by a liveried footman. 'Good evening, sir. Miss Hart isexpecting you. She's upstairs in the drawing room.'

He handed thefootman his Chesterfield overcoat, top hat and cane, and strode up the sweepingstaircase to the first floor. He paused before a gilt mirror to straighten hiswhite neck cloth. It was unfashionably broad and worn with a high collar. Thelatest style was for small bows and low collars, but he had never been one tofollow trends, and the rest of his evening dress said as much, with itstraditional black tails, white waistcoat with embroidered borders, blacktrousers and pumps. Though his boyish handsomeness was marred slightly by hisreceding hairline, he still cut a dashing figure in the mirror with hisimpressive moustache and whiskers. Not bad for forty, he thought, beforecontinuing on to the drawing room.

'Hello,darling,' said a female voice as he entered. 'Come and meet your son.'

She was standingin front of the fireplace, a broad smile on her radiant face, a tiny babyclutched in her arms. Her curly raven hair was piled high on her head, her fullfigure enclosed in a tight-fitting green velvet gown that matched her flashingeyes. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. 'Hello, Emma,' heresponded, nodding at the baby. 'Is he well?'

'He is. And he has a name:George Arthur, named for you and the Iron Duke. Fornow, my surname will have to suffice.'

He walked over,kissed her cheek and peered down at his sleeping son. The boy's features wereregular, the hair glossy black, and the skin much lighter than his mother'smilk-coffee tone. 'He's perfect,' he said. 'But I can never acknowledge him.'

Emma's smilefaded. 'Why ever not? It's not as though he's yourfirst bastard, nor I your first mistress.'

'No. But Imarried your predecessor. And, as you well know, she doesn't take kindly torivals.'

'Any rivals?'she spat. 'Or just those who are younger, more beautiful and more talented?'

'Sarcasm doesn'tbecome you, Emma. You must realize I have no choice. Louisa is insanely jealousif I even so much as look at a pretty girl, and this would break her heart. Norwould Her Majesty regard it with any more favour.'

'The queen hasaccepted the bastards you bred with your wife before you married her. Why not this one?'

He sighed andwalked towards the window overlooking the square, his hands clasped behind hisback. 'The queen has never even mentioned them. As far as she's concerned, mywife and children do not exist, which is why I'd be a fool to reopen oldwounds. An injudicious marriage is bad enough; but infidelity she would neverforgive. You know what sticklers she and Albert are for moral propriety.'

'Indeed,' saidEmma with contempt. 'But that's never discouraged you, has it? Are you surethere isn't another reason? Like the colour of his skin?'

He turnedsharply. 'That has nothing to do with it. The boy's no darker than our good MrDisraeli. And don't think I'm trying to shirk my responsibilities. As long asyou keep quiet about his provenance, you'll receive an annuity of threethousand pounds. But it will cease on his eighteenth birthday, by which timeI'll have arranged a commission for him in my old cavalry regiment. From thenon he's on his own. He'll have to live on his army pay.'

'And what if Idon't want him to become a soldier?'

'How could youobject? A more honourable profession does not exist.'

'It's not thenature of the profession I'm concerned with, George, but the obvious truth thatnot everyone is suited to war. Surely you know that as well as anyone.'

'I' he saidindignantly. 'What exactly are you getting at? I did my duty in the Crimea and onlycame home on a medical certificate.'

'Of course, but...'

'But what?

She was about tomention the adverse reaction by the press to his early return, but thoughtbetter of it.

After a pause hecontinued, 'I've told you my terms. If you renege on them, I'll stop the annuityand still deny he's myson. But I'm prepared to offer an additional inducement: if you allow him toenter the army and he achieves certain goals by a certain age, then he'llreceive from my solicitor a series of substantial payments.'

'What goals?'

'I have yet todecide. But all will be revealed on his eighteenth birthday.'

Looking down ather baby, she said in a low voice, ' So that's yourplan: to blackmail your son into becoming a successful soldier? Why him? Whynot your other sons?'

'Thus far my elder sons have shown little aptitude for the military. I don't knowwhy. Maybe I've indulged them. But the truth is they're far more interested indrinking and gambling than taking their profession seriously. In short, theylack ambition, like a lot of young men today. He won't. Life in the army willtoughen him up and give him something to work for.'

She snorted andshook her head. 'I don't think you've thought about this enough. George is thebastard son of a half-breed actress . He wouldn'tsurvive five minutes in the army.'

'I never said itwould be easy. That's part of the challenge. But to make life simpler I suggestyou tell him he's of Maltese blood and that his father died when he was aninfant.'

She shook herhead. 'No, I'm sorry. I can't do that.'

He stared at hercoldly for a while, nodded at the child in her arms and said, 'You can and youwill, for his sake if not your own. Your time on the stage is limited. Yourbeauty will fade. Then how will you provide for your son? I can do that, but myidentity must remain a secret even to him.'

She turned awayto hide her tears. When she turned back, he'd gone.

HarrowSchool, Michaelmas Term 1873

'Hart, you lazybastard, where the devil are you?' came a cry from outside the dormitory.

George flinchedat the sound of his tormentor's voice and continued buffing the large blackshoe in his hand. He had been working on it for a good ten minutes, and theresult was a shine so clear he could see his reflection in it. Yet he knew fromexperience that his fagmaster, Percy Sykes, would find fault with the smallestblemish.

'Hart!' The call wasangry now. 'You've got twenty seconds to produce my shoes. I'm counting.'

A last vigorousrub and George was done. He grabbed the shoe's twin from the floor and hurtledout of the dormitory, along the corridor, up a flight of stairs and came to ahalt in front of Sykes's study. The door was open.

'Twenty-twoseconds,' said Sykes, pocket-watch in hand. He was sitting in an armchair and,apart from his stockinged feet, was immaculately turned out in his Sunday bestof top hat and tails. 'Shame. Shoes,please.'

George handedover the gleaming footwear.

'Not bad, notbad at all,' said Sykes, turning them over. 'We'll make a valet of you yet. ButI can't abide lateness. Report to the gym after lunch foryour punishment.'

George knew thegym meant another beating. He had had enough.

'No.'

'Whatdid you say?'

I said no. I wasonly two seconds late.'

Sykes stood upand approached George menacingly. He was tall for his seventeen years andstockily built. 'You dare to say no to me?'

George saidnothing, prompting Sykes to lower his face to within inches of his fag's. 'I'mgoing to teach you some manners, Hart. Forget the gym. Meet me in the longfield at six - and don't be late.'