The Kraals of Ulundi: A Novel of the Zulu War by Ebsworth David

Author:Ebsworth, David [Ebsworth, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical
ISBN: 9781781322123
Amazon: B00JEHI6HE
Goodreads: 25692879
Publisher: SilverWood Books
Published: 2014-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Friday 13th June 1879

Carey was effectively under arrest, confined to his quarters pending the opening of the General Court Martial’s second day. He had not slept, of course. His attempt at a further letter to Annie had ended in tearful frustration. What would he say to her now? The fancy Fairchild pen with the Number Four Mabie Tod nib remained mute on the matter. That which he had written immediately after his return from the disastrous patrol had been addressed with excuses, dated with indignation, bore a salutation that pleaded sympathy, was lined with inevitability, stained and blotched by tears of half-truth, incredulity, despair, and signed with a flourish of self-loathing. He regretted having sent the thing, as he regretted a great many others. How different might it all have been? He remained relatively certain that his captaincy must, by now, at last have been confirmed and that his step upon the rung towards further seniority would have been accelerated by the previous exemplary conduct so frequently mentioned in dispatches, his valour a matter of record; his wife and remaining children proud of him; an atonement for the loss of Jahleel junior. The Lord God finally satisfied. But now? The Almighty seemed to be waiting once more. This time for him to clear his name. And only the Court Martial, thought Carey, can do that. It must remain the focus for my efforts.

Through the muffled canvas of his tent flap, he heard the sentry speak. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the Lieutenant is permitted no unauthorised visitors.’

‘Och, I have authorisation,’ said another, indistinct, the accent strange, though with a clear hint of the Scot. ‘From Mister Drummond himself.’

Carey was expecting a visit from his defence advocate, Crookenden, the artillery captain, even if the fellow had been little use yesterday; left him largely to conduct his own case. But this was not Crookenden.

‘Very good, sir,’ the sentry was saying. ‘All seems to be in order.’ There was a slight movement of the flap. ‘Beggin’ pardon, Lieutenant,’ said the guard. ‘Visitor for you, sir.’

‘Send him in, Corporal,’ Carey replied. ‘And see if somebody might rustle up a brew, would you?’

The flap was pulled all the way back. The sky was still dark, though dusted with the first scarlet streaks of South Africa’s dawn, quickly blotted out again by the bulk that filled the entrance. Carey turned up the lamp wick so that he might study this early bird better then took a step backwards with the shock of recognition.

‘Sweet Lord of Mercy…’ It was a genuine prayer, not a blasphemy.

‘Surprised, old boy?’ said McTeague. ‘Just thought I’d drop by and offer a few wee words of comfort. Not the most auspicious of days, eh?’

Twelve years had passed, but Carey would have recognised him anywhere: those amiable rust-red cheeks; the dancing eyes; the comfortable paunch. They all spoke of cherubic bonhomie. The heavily oiled hair and moustache, on the other hand; the monocle; the most immaculate of clothes, regardless of location, yet always doused in the cheapest of colognes, these things all chimed a different tune.

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