He followed the African girl up a narrow, dimly lit set of stairs. A passage at the top was wide and pleasantly cool. The room faced east with views over Durban. More evidence of Thomas Baines’s talent adorned the walls of the comfortably large bedchamber.
Going back downstairs, he paid Mrs Watson for a week’s board and lodging.
She insisted on writing out a receipt, her neat copperplate handwriting obviously a source of great pride and taking an inordinate amount of time to complete. ‘I have two other gentlemen staying here. You’ll meet them this evening. Dinner is at six sharp. If you are late it will be kept for you to eat cold. The privy and washhouse are out back. Place any dirty linen in the bag provided behind your door. I expect my lodgers to keep respectable hours and show consideration for the sleep of others. Guests must not be entertained anywhere but the front parlour. Here is a front-door key. I hope you will be comfortable. Yours is the best room, the one Thomas uses when he is here. Mabel will assist the driver with your things. Breakfast is at eight.’
Several hours later, unpacked and bathed, Dallas met the other two lodgers. One was about to be married and owned a small trading company, somehow connected to Mr Cato. Dallas never found out exactly how but learned that the man exported meat, butter, maize and beans to the Mauritian sugar plantations and ivory to Britain. Imports came largely from England and the problem of chronic shortages dominated his conversation. The other guest worked for the Natal Mercury and advised Dallas to read the newspaper if he was looking for work. ‘Everyone advertises,’ he said. ‘You’ll find plenty of opportunities.’
The meal was plain fare but good. After dinner Dallas and the other two gentlemen went into the garden to smoke cigars. Listening to the conversation, Dallas learned a lot about this new land. Everyone, it seemed, needed a smattering of the native language, Zulu.
‘Absolutely essential, old chap. You’ll pick up the basics quite quickly. It’s not difficult.’
Zulu kings and their tribal courts, British administrators and dirty dealings, scandals, skirmishes between African and European or Boer and British, petty in-fighting, rumours of gold, tales of hunters and explorers, wild animals – the stories kept coming. Although Dallas was well aware of embellishment for his benefit, the unfamiliar subject matter made the tales exotic and exciting.
At one stage, Dallas repeated their landlady’s boast about her nephew, Thomas Baines. ‘I understand he’s an acquaintance of David Livingstone.’
The newspaperman laughed derisively. ‘And probably wishes he’d never met the man.’
‘Why not?’ The name David Livingstone was revered throughout Britain. He’d had a private audience with Queen Victoria, the Royal Geographical Society presented him with a gold medal, and he was one of the very few to be granted freedom of the city of London. Funding for further expeditions was readily available from a variety of sources. His book, Missionary Travels and Researches, had been highly successful, making him a household name. The man was a hero, some even suggesting he was a saint. Now here was a hint that the missionary was not all he seemed. Intrigued, Dallas raised inquiring eyebrows and was rewarded with a frank response.
‘I’ve spoken to a few who travelled with him.’ The journalist seemed happy to elaborate. ‘Men like Dr John Kirk, who was on Livingstone’s Zambezi expedition with Baines. The great man falls out with everyone. He’s arrogant, narrow-minded and not, it would seem, particularly Christian in his treatment of those around him. Thomas Baines was ill for a lot of that trip. Fever and sunstroke mainly. The poor chap was delirious. Livingstone accused him of malingering, fired the man for lack of attention to his duties. The claims are perfectly true. Livingstone’s behaviour has been confirmed by several who have been on previous expeditions with him. The Zambezi trip was especially bad and seems to have been doomed from the start. David Livingstone was difficult enough but his brother, Charles, caused most of the problems on that venture. Damned man was lazy as hell. He was the one who accused Baines of holding up the expedition, despite his own insistence on resting every half hour.’
Dallas found it difficult to accept such damning comments about a man as admired as David Livingstone. His expression must have reflected that doubt.
The newspaperman merely shrugged. ‘Why are you surprised? Livingstone was human first, a national hero second. Like most daredevils, fame came as a consequence of his success. Had he failed, the man’s character would have gone unrecorded. Irrespective of any weaknesses, he at least deserves our admiration for vision, perseverence and achievement.’
Dallas nodded. ‘You may well be correct. However, telling such tales at home would need more than mere hearsay to avoid acquiring the reputation of a heretic.’
‘Home,’ the journalist scoffed. ‘What do they know of this place? Let me give you some advice, sir. Forget England. Don’t compare the two. You can’t.’
Logan Burton had said the same thing, several times.
Turning in a little after ten, unique and strange as his new home may have been, Dallas felt the first stirrings of belonging. Whether it was having finally reached his destination, or a more basic empathy with the unconventional nature of things around him, he couldn’t have said.
At breakfast, Mrs Watson produced a copy of the Natal Mercury. ‘It’s the latest issue. I’d like it back, please.’
One advertisement grabbed his attention. A trader by the name of William Green was looking for a partner to join him on a trek into Zululand. Dallas liked the idea of a partnership. He showed the advertisement to Mrs Watson. ‘Do these opportunities come up often?’
She peered at the newspaper and sniffed. ‘Never heard of William Green.’ A stubby finger jabbed at an announcement about something called the Welbourne Scheme. ‘That’s a thing you should be looking at.’
‘What is it?’
‘Plans to extend the railway. This country will never move forward until we have an efficient railway system. A group of private financiers has been granted two and a half million acres of land by the Legislative Council to develop one. Get in on the ground floor of that, Mr Granger, and your future is assured. Not only do they have the land, the syndicate has negotiated an annual subsidy and secured a ten-year monopoly on the supply of iron and steel. There’s some talk of government vetoing the idea but mark my words, if it’s not the Welbourne Scheme, then another will soon be up and running.’
Dallas didn’t fancy the idea. The thought of an equal partnership had excited him. ‘It sounds a bit too political for me, Mrs Watson. I think I’ll reply to William Green’s advertisement. At least find out what’s on offer.’
She sniffed again. ‘Be on your toes, Mr Granger. There is many a rogue in Africa ready to swindle a young man such as yourself.’
‘Thank you for the advice, Mrs Watson. I’ll be careful.’
Dallas received a reply to his expression of interest three days later. He had used the intervening time to set himself up with a few essentials. First, and most important, he needed a means of getting around. A horse seemed the best option and his landlady was able to assist. Mrs Watson knew a man who was returning to England and anxious to find a home for his favourite animal with someone who would take good care of her. The three-year-old chestnut filly’s name was Tosca. Dallas was assured that she had a quiet and gentle nature yet was spirited enough to run when allowed. Tosca approached her new owner with suspicion but, once she’d sniffed the outstretched hand and felt his fingers gentle on her nose, she relaxed. The asking price paid, Dallas acquired one horse, the accompanying saddlery and several items he would find useful in the bush, including a bedroll. It was almost as though Tosca knew she had been sold. Man and beast left her old home, neither offering a backward glance.
A rifle was next. From a gunsmith recommended by the Natal Mercury newspaperman, Dallas purchased a. 44 calibre, 1866 Winchester Yellow Boy. It was almost new with intricate engraving embellishing a brass receiver frame, buttplate and fore-end. He had no idea that it was far f
rom ideal for African conditions.
He opened a bank account, depositing nearly one thousand pounds. The money his father had given him seemed like a lot at the time. When he realised how much he needed to outlay on basic requirements, Dallas knew he had to find a way of bringing in money, and quickly. What was left would not last forever.
He wrote a letter home. Dallas was anxious for news but knew it would be a long time before he received any. His mother would be equally eager to hear from him so he filled pages with details of his travels, leaving out any mention of the jewel theft, and ending with an assurance that he was well, in good spirits and asking forgiveness, especially from his sister.
Dallas would dearly have loved to write to Lorna but knew it was impossible. Not a day passed without a memory, however small, coming to taunt him. Knowing she was beyond his reach – geographically, emotionally and socially – should have helped put her out of his mind. It didn’t. In Dallas’s case, he had strayed too far over acceptable boundaries to forget her. His fault. The knowledge of that didn’t help.
He found himself telling his mother of his feelings for Lorna. The more he wrote, the greater his longing, but Dallas seemed unable to stop. Something, he knew not what, compelled him to share his pain with another. It was not a confession of indiscretion, he left all detail of their trysts out, rather a baring of his heart. Of all the people he knew, his mother would understand. The earl would read it with little sympathy, perhaps even anger, but Dallas needed to confide in someone.
Mrs Watson, once sure that Dallas was a gentleman to be trusted, allowed him to give her address so that correspondence could be sent to him there.
The response from William Green, hand-delivered to the Natal Mercury and brought home by Mrs Watson’s lodger, was badly written and brief: I be down at Point Grog Shoppe Sunday. Me old partner died of the fever. If you be genuine come at midday. Will Green.
Dallas was rather taken aback at the man’s lack of education. He showed his fellow boarders the scrappy note. Both were understandably skeptical.
‘Fellow is illiterate,’ observed the about-to-be-married trader. ‘I know most of these travelling men. Never heard of Will Green.’
‘I’ve met him,’ the journalist said. ‘Bit on the rough side.’
‘Never mind that.’ Dallas brushed their opinions aside. ‘It will do no harm to at least meet the man.’
SIX
At eleven on Sunday morning, Dallas saddled Tosca and rode into town. Over the past few days he’d explored far and wide, becoming familiar with a number of the roads and identifying several landmarks. Quite by accident he’d found himself passing the address Logan had given him for Jette’s aunt. He nearly paid her a visit but, in the end, decided against it. If the woman was aware of her niece’s lucrative though felonious activities, she’d not be inclined to answer any of his questions. And if Jette’s aunt had no idea what her relative got up to, there was no point distressing the good lady. Jette could wait.
Dallas found the Point Grog Shoppe down near the railway terminal. Like most buildings other than those housing government departments, it was roughly built of wattle and daub. The bar consisted of six wooden packing cases, stacked end to end, behind which a giant of a man with a bull neck and shiny bald head kept order, after a fashion. Off-duty military men joked, plied each other with alcohol and gambled. Sailors, equally rowdy, made up another group. The rest of the occupants were tough-looking men who sat in groups of two or three drinking steadily, most deep in conversation. Raucous laughter, shouted requests for more liquor and rough voices raised in good-natured bantering gave the place an atmosphere Dallas had never seen in Britain, probably for the simple reason that he’d never ventured into the less salubrious taverns back home.
Jeremy Hardcastle sat at one of the tables. Dallas barely recognised the first officer out of uniform. The Marie Clare had sailed three days ago. Why hadn’t Hardcastle left with it? Had he been dismissed or jumped ship? From the man’s appearance, he’d been drinking for quite a while. The company he was in was most definitely questionable. Sailors by the look of them, one sporting an eye patch, the other covered in tattoos. The three were hunched towards each other, as if discussing something they wished no others to overhear.
Dallas’s gaze moved on, searching for anyone who might be William Green. In such a place his manner of dress was drawing attention. He noticed one man seated alone, staring at an empty glass in front of him. Dallas approached him. ‘William Green?’
Faded blue eyes flicked up, almost in surprise. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Dallas Granger.’
Green’s eyes raked him from head to toe, an expression of contempt clear in them. ‘Didn’t expect no gentleman,’ he said finally. The voice was strongly accented. Yorkshire, Dallas thought.
‘What difference does it make?’
‘Young, too,’ the man went on. ‘Yer no more than a suckling babe.’
Dallas flushed. Open amusement showed on faces nearby and Green seemed to be enjoying the audience. ‘Young I may be, sir, but dry behind the ears, you’ll find.’
‘Is that right?’ The slumped form cackled suddenly, showing stained and decaying teeth. ‘Well, that’s as maybe.’ He rose so swiftly that Dallas was taken by surprise. One of Green’s hands shot out and grabbed a fistful of shirt front. ‘Perhaps we should find out now. I’ve no inclination to do business with a nancy boy.’
Eyes never leaving Green’s face, Dallas gripped the sinewy arm with one hand, fingers tightening.
William Green’s eyes widened with surprise and he grimaced with pain as Dallas exerted pressure. He let go of Dallas’s shirt. ‘No need for that, youngster. It was just a bit of fun.’
Dallas treated him to several more seconds of his grip before relaxing it. Still holding Green’s arm he said softly, ‘Just so you know, Mr Green, I may be young but this gentleman is no milksop, nor am I a fool.’ His fingers squeezed slightly. ‘Now, do we have something to discuss or don’t we?’ The derision aimed at Dallas from those nearby transferred to William Green.
Aware of the shift, and glancing nervously around, Green nodded.
Dallas let his hand fall and sat down. After a few seconds’ hesitation, William Green did the same. Around them, men lost interest as the promising confrontation apparently fizzled out.
‘Drink?’ Green offered, his eyes now wary. ‘Try the rum.’
Dallas accepted.
Green bellowed an order to the barman.
They waited in silence, each sizing up the other.
William Green, Dallas decided, was certainly a chancer. Happy to indulge in a little bullying but quick to back down when someone stood against him. Not promising traits for a potential business partner. However, having lost the first encounter, Green seemed happy enough to put it aside. Physically, he was an odd-looking individual. Short and slightly built, exposed face and arms burned brown, his body wiry with no excess fat. Dark-red frizzy hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed for some time. It lay in limp, knotted strands down to his shoulders. Dark bushes sat atop faded blue eyes. A flowing beard, predominantly grey with patches of ginger around the mouth suggested maturity, but he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. Creases covered his forehead and deep crow’s feet crevassed from eye to hairline. Yet the skin on his cheeks was as smooth as that of a much younger man’s. He wore threadbare breeches tucked into homemade leather boots and held up by braces made from plaited hide. A grubby shirt with rolled sleeves, open at the collarless neck, had been patched many times and was in dire need of replacement.
Two none too clean glasses of rum were plunked in front of them by a serving girl who Green treated to a slap on the rump. ‘Cheers,’ he said, downing his drink in one.
‘Cheers,’ Dallas responded, attempting to do the same. The spirit caught in his throat and he coughed for nearly a minute. ‘God’s teeth,’ he managed eventually. ‘This stuff would eat a hole in your guts.’
William Green�
��s laugh was more of a giggle.
Dallas was starting to have serious reservations. However, he’d come here to discuss a partnership so he might as well get it over and done with. Leaning forward was not a good idea. It wasn’t only the man’s hair that needed washing. ‘Your proposition, sir?’ Dallas quickly sat back again.
Green’s look turned smug. ‘Not so fast, young’un. If I don’t like you, there ain’t one in the offing. Man’s got to protect hisself, know what I mean? Just you hold on a bit and tell me of yourself.’
Dallas was prepared – he was the sixth son of an Edinburgh merchant and in search of adventure.
William Green listened intently, head cocked to one side. When Dallas fell silent, and with no change of expression, he said, ‘There be more truth in a tart’s tale of woe than that sorry story.’ He lowered his voice, leaning forward. ‘I don’t want no details. Don’t care if you knocked up the queen herself.’ A grimy finger jabbed into Dallas’s chest. ‘You’re one of them remittance men. Stands out a mile.’ Green sat back, chewing the inside of his cheek, mouth screwed up, sucking air through the gaps in his front teeth. ‘I’ve met good and bad of your kind,’ he went on finally. ‘Don’t like toffs as a rule.’ Dark-red eyebrows drew together. ‘Don’t take to criminals much, either. The way I see it, one lot wants to take everything I own and the others think they own everything already. I’m not saying you’re neither, mind, but it’s me that’s taking a partner and I want to know what I’m letting myself into. Know what I mean?’
Green had some kind of strategy of his own invention, throwing his weight around a bit to impress and establish authority. It didn’t call for an answer. Dallas remained silent.
His lack of response seemed to unnerve the trader. ‘Some of you aren’t that bad. Could be we’d get along fine. Man’s got to make sure, though.’ Green scowled again, aware he was on the back foot, talking too much, with only himself to blame.
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