Read Online Zulu Hart by Saul David - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Saul David
Tags: Historical
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cheek.
She reddened and lowered her eyes. ‘Goodbye.’
Chapter 4
South Wales, 24 January 1878
George’s instinct was to head straight for Dublin and tell his mother everything. But he knew how important she now regarded his military career to be, and how shocked she would be by the news, for financial reasons as much as anything, and so he chose to travel first to Brecon, where his best friend, Jake Morgan, was stationed with his new regiment, the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Foot.
At Sandhurst, George had ribbed Jake mercilessly for preferring the infantry - ‘the footsloggers’ - to the more mobile and glamorous cavalry, and had tried on a number of occasions to make him change his mind and join the KDG. Jake, however, had been adamant. His father had fought with the 24th Foot at Chillianwala in 1849, when the regiment had lost thirteen officers and more than half its strength in a matter of minutes, and he was determined to follow in his footsteps. Literally, thought George at the time, given that Jake was a poor rider and much happier on his own two feet than four hooves.
As his train chugged slowly towards Brecon through the rugged splendour of the Black Mountains, George’s mind wandered back to their first meeting on the opening day of the new term at Sandhurst. Jake had been given punishment drill for taking issue with an instructor’s mockery of his Welsh accent, and was doubling round the parade ground in full kit, a slight figure almost dwarfed by his pack. The sun was beating down remorselessly and after an hour the instructor took pity on him and said he could stop if he apologized. Jake refused and the ordeal continued until nightfall. When it was over, and George was helping this tough young Welshman to a cup of water, he asked him why he had been so obstinate. ‘Because,’ said Jake, coughing, ‘if I hadn’t made a stand now, the jokes would have continued.’
The words had struck a chord with George, and since that day the pair had been inseparable. They could hardly have been more different: George a tall, dark Irishman of unknown paternity and fresh-faced good looks; Jake an unassuming Welshman, the son of a wealthy colliery owner, small and lean, with red hair, freckles and a crooked smile. But opposites attract and the two had developed a bond of friendship that, they had promised each other, time and distance would never break. George had always trusted Jake’s advice. Now he needed it more than ever.
The walk from the railway station to the new red-brick barracks on the outskirts of Brecon took George about ten minutes. At the guardhouse he asked to speak to Second Lieutenant Morgan and was told to wait. Within minutes the door opened and in walked Jake, looking extremely dapper in his new scarlet tunic with green facings, Sam Browne belt and blue cloth helmet.
‘George!’ he said, slightly taken aback that his friend was wearing mufti. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Don’t tell me your regiment has been ordered overseas and you’ve come to say goodbye?’
‘No, nothing like that. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
‘Of course. Let’s go to the Red Lion across the street. I’m not on duty again until six.’
The pub was a gloomy affair, all sawdust and stale beer, with only a couple of working men propping up the bar. Jake bought two pints of cider and led George to a secluded table in the saloon.
‘Your health,’ said Jake, raising his glass and taking a large gulp. ‘Just what I needed. Now are you going to tell me why you’re here?’
‘It’s hard to know where to start. But the bombshell my mother dropped on my birthday is, I suppose, as good a place as any.’
‘What bombshell?’
George told him everything: about his father and the deal his parents had done; the visit to the lawyer and the ridiculous terms of his father’s bequest; and the series of run-ins with his commanding officer, Colonel
She reddened and lowered her eyes. ‘Goodbye.’
Chapter 4
South Wales, 24 January 1878
George’s instinct was to head straight for Dublin and tell his mother everything. But he knew how important she now regarded his military career to be, and how shocked she would be by the news, for financial reasons as much as anything, and so he chose to travel first to Brecon, where his best friend, Jake Morgan, was stationed with his new regiment, the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Foot.
At Sandhurst, George had ribbed Jake mercilessly for preferring the infantry - ‘the footsloggers’ - to the more mobile and glamorous cavalry, and had tried on a number of occasions to make him change his mind and join the KDG. Jake, however, had been adamant. His father had fought with the 24th Foot at Chillianwala in 1849, when the regiment had lost thirteen officers and more than half its strength in a matter of minutes, and he was determined to follow in his footsteps. Literally, thought George at the time, given that Jake was a poor rider and much happier on his own two feet than four hooves.
As his train chugged slowly towards Brecon through the rugged splendour of the Black Mountains, George’s mind wandered back to their first meeting on the opening day of the new term at Sandhurst. Jake had been given punishment drill for taking issue with an instructor’s mockery of his Welsh accent, and was doubling round the parade ground in full kit, a slight figure almost dwarfed by his pack. The sun was beating down remorselessly and after an hour the instructor took pity on him and said he could stop if he apologized. Jake refused and the ordeal continued until nightfall. When it was over, and George was helping this tough young Welshman to a cup of water, he asked him why he had been so obstinate. ‘Because,’ said Jake, coughing, ‘if I hadn’t made a stand now, the jokes would have continued.’
The words had struck a chord with George, and since that day the pair had been inseparable. They could hardly have been more different: George a tall, dark Irishman of unknown paternity and fresh-faced good looks; Jake an unassuming Welshman, the son of a wealthy colliery owner, small and lean, with red hair, freckles and a crooked smile. But opposites attract and the two had developed a bond of friendship that, they had promised each other, time and distance would never break. George had always trusted Jake’s advice. Now he needed it more than ever.
The walk from the railway station to the new red-brick barracks on the outskirts of Brecon took George about ten minutes. At the guardhouse he asked to speak to Second Lieutenant Morgan and was told to wait. Within minutes the door opened and in walked Jake, looking extremely dapper in his new scarlet tunic with green facings, Sam Browne belt and blue cloth helmet.
‘George!’ he said, slightly taken aback that his friend was wearing mufti. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Don’t tell me your regiment has been ordered overseas and you’ve come to say goodbye?’
‘No, nothing like that. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
‘Of course. Let’s go to the Red Lion across the street. I’m not on duty again until six.’
The pub was a gloomy affair, all sawdust and stale beer, with only a couple of working men propping up the bar. Jake bought two pints of cider and led George to a secluded table in the saloon.
‘Your health,’ said Jake, raising his glass and taking a large gulp. ‘Just what I needed. Now are you going to tell me why you’re here?’
‘It’s hard to know where to start. But the bombshell my mother dropped on my birthday is, I suppose, as good a place as any.’
‘What bombshell?’
George told him everything: about his father and the deal his parents had done; the visit to the lawyer and the ridiculous terms of his father’s bequest; and the series of run-ins with his commanding officer, Colonel
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