Zulu Hart

by Saul David Ltd

Genres: Historical Fiction; Thrillers

Synopsis

'Gems like this are too rare. I was hooked in ten pages.' Conn Iggulden

GEORGE HART just wants to serve his Queen and honour his family. It's not that simple.

BASTARD
He doesn't know his father, only that he's a pillar of the Establishment. His beloved mother is half Irish, half Zulu.

ZULU
In a Victorian society rife with racism and prejudice, George's dark skin spells trouble to his regimental commander.

WARRIOR
But George has soldiering in his blood - the only question is what he's really fighting for: ancestry or Empire. In the heat of battle he must decide . . .

Release date: November 12, 2009

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 300

Sample

Author’s Note

This book came out of a meeting I had with George MacDonald Fraser, the creator of the Harry Flashman novels, two years before his death in 2008. I asked Fraser whether he planned to make good on hints in previous books that he would depict Flashman in the Zulu War of 1879. He said no. Six months later I pitched the idea of a novel set in that war to Hodder and Zulu Hart is the result.

       I knew my central character had to be very different from Fraser’s scurrilous anti-hero. Thus I created George Hart, the son of an English VIP and brought up a gentleman, but of mixed Irish-African descent on his mother’s side and therefore a man with a foot in both camps, capable of seeing the British Empire from the perspective of both ruler and ruled. He is, I hope, a character that modern readers can empathize with.

       As a historian of Victorian warfare, I was determined to make this book as authentic as possible. George’s VIP father, for example, is a real historical figure who had ‘a penchant for actresses’, secretly (and illegally) marrying one and having two illegitimate sons by her. Both were gamblers and spendthrifts who went on to have moderately successful military careers. Their father fought in the Crimea, but did not cover himself with glory at the hard-fought battles of Alma and Inkerman, where he failed to cope under pressure.

       George’s nemesis Sir Jocelyn Harris is a fictional creation but very loosely modelled on that arch-snob and martinet Lord Cardigan, who quarrelled with most of his officers, wounding one in a duel and secretly recording the conversation of another (for which he was condemned and sacked from the command of the 15th Hussars). Cardigan had earlier abused the ‘purchase system’ to rise from cornet to lieutenant colonel in just six years. He would go on to command the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade, and return from the Crimea a hero, but questions about his conduct that day would contrive to dog him.

       The brief time George spends with the 1st (King’s) Dragoon Guards in 1877 is a faithful record of that regiment’s activities when it was, as I state, stationed in Manchester. Among its troop officers was a Captain Marter, who later gained fame as the captor of King Cetshwayo in Zululand in August 1879. Its second-in-command, Major Winfield, had a few years earlier invented the game of ‘Sphairistike’, an early form of lawn tennis.

       Many of the details of George’s trip out to Africa are based on the diary of a Lieutenant Molyneux, aide-de-camp to Lord Chelmsford, who travelled out with his chief on board the steamer SS American in January 1878. Also on board were Lieutenant Colonel Wood, VC, Major Buller, Major (later Lieutenant Colonel) Crealock, Captain (later Major) Gossett and Lieutenant Melvill. The flogging of Private Thomas (another fictional creation) is based on an actual punishment parade that took place a year later on board a troopship bound for Durban.

       Most of the main events in Africa prior to and during the Zulu War were as I describe: the long deliberation of the Boundary Commission (one of whose members was Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Durnford); the pro-Zulu stance of the Colenso family; the recapture and execution of two (I only mention one) of Chief Sihayo’s wives by his sons and one of his brothers; the gradual build-up of troops on the Zulu border; Sir Bartle Frere’s cynical delivery of an ultimatum that he knew the British government did not support and King Cetshwayo could not accept; and, finally, the invasion of Zululand and the blunders that resulted in the catastrophic defeat at Isandlwana and, just a few hours later, the heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift.

       For the purposes of plot I have taken one or two minor liberties with the historical record. There is, for example, no evidence that Bishop Colenso ever tried to give King Cetshwayo an early warning of the Boundary Commission’s favourable decision, nor that Henry Fynn had a grudge against Chief Matshana and plotted with Colonel Crealock to destroy him. On the other hand it was Fynn who convinced Lord Chelmsford that the main Zulu army intended to link up with Matshana in the vicinity of the Mangeni Gorge, thus prompting the general to fatally divide his column on the morning of 22 January 1879. Colonel Crealock, meanwhile, was the man who orchestrated the cover-up for the defeat by lying on oath to the court of inquiry that he had ordered Durnford to ‘take command’ of the camp at Isandlwana in Chelmsford’s absence. The actual order – recovered from the battlefield and suppressed for a number of years – had simply instructed Durnford to ‘march to this camp at once with all the force you have with you’. Only when the truth about the battle became known later that year did HRH the Duke of Cambridge, the commander-in-chief, exonerate Durnford in a secret memorandum that did not come to light until the 1960s.

       At our meeting in 2006, George MacDonald Fraser told me the trick to writing about real people was to ‘stay true to the spirit of the person’. I have tried to heed that advice, particularly in the case of Colonel Crealock. There is, for example, no doubt that Crealock was hugely influential in all of the bad decisions that Lord Chelmsford made during the Zulu War. Sir Garnet Wolseley, Chelmsford’s replacement, acknowledged this when he described his predecessor in his journal as a ‘weak tool in the hands of Crealock, whom everyone execrates as neither a soldier nor a gentleman’. Such a man was certainly capable, if not guilty, of the misdeeds that I attribute to him.

       For any readers who would like to delve further into the history of the period, I recommend the following books:

 

Daphne Child (ed.), The Zulu War Journal of Colonel Henry Harford, C.B. (1978)

Richard Cope, Ploughshare of War: The Origins of the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879 (1999)

Saul David, Zulu: The Heroism and Tragedy of the Zulu War of 1879 (2004)

R.W.F. Droogleever, The Road to Isandhlwana: Colonel Anthony Durnford in Natal and Zululand 1873–1879 (1992)

John Laband (ed.), Lord Chelmsford’s Zululand Campaign 1878–1879 (1994)

Major-General W.C.F. Molyneux, Campaigning in South Africa and Egypt (1896)

Donald Morris, The Washing of the Spears: The Rise and Fall of the Great Zulu Nation (1966)

C.L. Norris-Newman, In Zululand with the British (1880)

Wyn Rees (ed.), Colenso Letters from Natal (1958)

Sir Evelyn Wood, From Midshipman to Field Marshal (1906)

 

Writing a novel, I discovered, is very much a collaborative effort. The most telling contributions were made by my editor Nick Sayers and his assistant Anne Clarke who together helped to transform my pig’s ear of an early manuscript into something approaching a silk purse. And to everyone else at Hodder who has worked so hard on the book – Kerry, Susan, Mark, as well as Kelly, Lucy, Diana, Jason and their teams, in particular Aslan and Laura – I’m extremely grateful.

       A big thank-you, also, to my publicist Richard Foreman who suggested I try my hand at writing a historical novel and who set up my initial meeting with Nick; to my good friend Matt Jackson, who helped me with plot and character while we were sailing off Turkey; to the novelist Aminatta Forna for much invaluable advice; to my agent Peter Robinson who never voiced any doubts that I could make the difficult transition from non-fiction to fiction; and to my wife Louise who did voice one or two doubts, but who read the manuscript chapter by chapter and provided invaluable advice regardless.

 

1

Harrow School, Michaelmas Term 1873

‘Hart, you lazy bastard, where the devil are you?’ came a cry from outside the dormitory.

       George flinched at the sound of his tormentor’s voice and continued buffing the large black shoe in his hand. He had been working on it for a good ten minutes, and the result was a shine so clear he could see his reflection in it. Yet he knew from experience that his fagmaster, Percy Sykes, would find fault with the smallest blemish.

       ‘Hart!’ The call was angry now. ‘You’ve got twenty seconds to produce my shoes. I’m counting.’

       A last vigorous rub and George was done. He grabbed the shoe’s twin from the floor and hurtled out of the dormitory, along the corridor, up a flight of stairs and came to a halt in front of Sykes’s study. The door was open.

       ‘Twenty-two seconds,’ 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 best of top hat and tails. ‘Shame. Shoes, please.’

       George handed over the gleaming footwear.

       ‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ said Sykes, turning them over. ‘We’ll make a valet of you yet. But I can’t abide lateness. Report to the gym after lunch for your punishment.’

       George knew the gym meant another beating. He had had enough.

       ‘No.’

       ‘What did you say?’

       ‘I said no. I was only two seconds late.’

       Sykes stood up and approached George menacingly. He was tall for his seventeen years and stockily built. ‘You dare to say no to me?’

       George said nothing, prompting Sykes to lower his face to within inches of his fag’s. ‘I’m going to teach you some manners, Hart. Forget the gym. Meet me in the long field at six – and don’t be late.’

       George knew he had gone too far. The long field was the venue for fist-fights, or ‘affairs of honour’, as the boys chose to call them, the means by which most quarrels at Harrow were settled. George thought back to the two bouts he had already fought and won against boys his own age. Neither had been a pleasant experience. But the bigger and stronger Sykes was a very different proposition. His instinct was to decline and take his punishment in the gym. But where would it end? No, he decided, it was far better to stand up to Sykes and his kind in an open fight, even if it meant a pummelling.

       ‘I’ll be there,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt.

       News of the fight spread rapidly, and a large crowd had gathered by the time George and his second, a pale youth called Watson, reached the long field at a few minutes to six. They pushed their way through the excited throng to find Sykes in the centre of the field, stripped to the waist and shadow-boxing with one of his cronies. The sixth-former acting as referee was also there.

       Sykes raised his eyebrows at George’s arrival. ‘Didn’t think you’d show,’ he said with a sneer. ‘And you’ll soon wish you hadn’t.’

       ‘Enough!’ said the referee. ‘Time to let your fists do the talking. You both know the rules: three minutes a round, sixty seconds to recover from a knockdown and you fight until one or other of you has had enough. Any questions?’

       They both shook their heads.

       ‘Come together, then.’

       George stripped off his shirt and handed it to Watson. He was much slighter than Sykes, causing the crowd to howl with laughter as the two fighters stepped up to the mark: one tall, white and muscular; the other dark and scrawny.

       The referee dropped his hand. ‘Round one!’

       Sykes came rushing forward, a straight right and a swinging left both narrowly failing to connect with his opponent’s face. George countered with a jab that caught Sykes flush on the chin and rocked his head back. The crowd roared its approval, delighted they would see a contest after all.

       ‘You’ll pay for that,’ said Sykes, spitting blood from a split lip.

       But as the fight wore on it became clear that George’s superior technique was every bit a match for Sykes’s size advantage. Each time the older boy tried to close and bring his strength to bear, George ducked and danced his way out of trouble. He was like a matador with a bull, and by round five a wheezing Sykes was getting desperate. He ploughed forward again and straight on to George’s right hook. The crack as fist connected with bone cartilage could be heard by latecomers fifty yards away. As Sykes staggered and fell, his nose streaming blood, George clutched his injured right hand.

       The crowd was shocked into silence, as bewildered by the smaller boy’s extraordinary courage as they were by his lightning hands. They sensed, too, that he was badly hurt.

       ‘You all right, Hart?’ asked Watson.

       ‘No. I think I’ve broken a bone in my right hand, but for God’s sake don’t let on.’

       Watson looked across at Sykes. He had been helped into a sitting position by his second, who was sponging his face. ‘I don’t think he’ll make it. But if he does, you have to concede. You can’t fight with one hand.’

       ‘I won’t concede.’

       With only seconds of his minute’s grace remaining, Sykes stumbled forward to the mark, his face groggy and his arms hanging limply by his sides.

       ‘All right to go on?’ asked the referee.

       Sykes nodded, fury in his eyes.

       George continued as before, keeping his opponent at bay with well-aimed jabs. His fluid movement over the ground gave little away to the crowd, but it quickly became apparent to Sykes that he was reluctant to land any blows with his previously fearsome right hand. This knowledge brought a smile to Sykes’s battered lips. He feinted with his right hand and landed a crunching left hook on George’s undefended right ear, stunning his opponent but not felling him.

       George stumbled backwards, trying to clear his head, but Sykes could smell blood and was on him in an instant, landing two more swingeing lefts to the side of the smaller boy’s head. The baying crowd groaned as George fell awkwardly to the ground, his face bruised and bleeding.

       ‘Give it up, Hart,’ hissed Watson, as he sponged away the blood. ‘Walk away now, while you still can!’

       George heard these words through the buzzing in his right ear, but far from causing him to see sense, to give in to this thug, their effect was quite the opposite. He had been bullied long enough; it was time to make his stand. As he walked slowly back to the mark, distantly recalled episodes, some horrid and violent, others quite banal, rushed uninvited to the forefront of his mind, like the time Sykes and his cronies had forced his head down a lavatory before pulling the chain. The sense of injustice seemed to flow into his broken right fist. Before he could stop himself, he had driven that fist with all his strength into the point of Sykes’s chin.

       He must have blacked out with the pain, because when he came to, Watson was hovering above him again, concern etched on his face. ‘Are you all right, Hart?’

       George nodded, though his right hand felt as if it was on fire.

       Watson gestured towards the prostrate Sykes. ‘I don’t think he can carry on, Hart: you’ve won.’

       George grimaced with the pain. As he staggered to his feet, a familiar voice shouted, ‘Out of my way, you bloody fools!’

       The crowd parted to reveal the tall, thin figure of Mr Hardy, George’s housemaster. ‘Back to school, all of you!’ he roared. ‘Now!’

       As the crowd scuttled away, Hardy walked over to Sykes and examined his battered face. ‘Not a pretty sight. You’ll need that nose reset, and when Matron’s done with you, report to my study for ten strokes of the cane. You’re also demoted from prefect.’

       ‘But, sir,’ implored Sykes.

       ‘But nothing. Fighting a boy three years your junior? What were you thinking? You might have killed him. It happened to a boy at Eton in the twenties. Lord Shaftesbury’s son, if memory serves. Just be thankful I’m not sending you down.’

       Hardy turned to George. ‘You all right, Hart?’

       ‘I think my hand’s broken, sir.’

       ‘Off to the infirmary with you, then, and Hart  . . .’

       ‘Yes, sir?’

       Hardy’s craggy face broke into a half-smile. ‘That was a plucky effort, lad, very plucky. But don’t let me catch you fighting again.’

 

Michaelmas Term 1877

George clenched his fist and winced. Almost four years had elapsed since the fight; his broken bones had long since knitted, yet he could still remember the pain as if it were yesterday. It had been worth it, though. His gallant showing had been the talk of the school, with Sykes cast in the role of pantomime bully; small wonder that he and his cronies had kept a low profile thereafter.

       It would have made his life easier, of course, if his mother had not been an actress, a most unusual profession for a woman of allegedly gentle birth (for she had always insisted her father was an Irish-born army officer and her mother a Maltese lady); and even more so if he had not been born out of wedlock and his father had survived his infant years. But such was fate, thought George, and hopefully the bad times were in the past.

       He had got through Harrow, excelled at Sandhurst, and was about to join one of the finest cavalry regiments in the British Army. His appointment to the 1st King’s Dragoon Guards – or KDG, as it was generally known – was, he had to confess, something of a mystery. Its officers were typically very rich or very well connected. He was neither, and had put this choice posting down to the potential he had shown as a gentleman-cadet. He was determined to fulfil that potential, even if it meant curbing his fiery temperament. But tonight he could be himself. It was his eighteenth birthday and, to celebrate, his mother had arranged a grand dinner party for their closest friends. He could hardly wait.

       George rose from his dressing table and peered at himself in the full-length mirror. His evening-dress suit had cost him a sizeable portion of his private allowance, but even he had to admit he looked well in it. It helped that he was over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, a natural clotheshorse. It helped, too, that his black tailcoat was of the finest twilled cashmere, with a low velvet collar and silk lapels. As he adjusted his white bow tie, he regretted again the inadequacy of his thin black moustache. He had only been shaving for a year, and his bristles were not yet thick enough to produce the necessary growth. The only other flaw in his classically handsome face, with its large hazel eyes and even white teeth, was a slightly crooked nose, the legacy of another fight. But that was no bad thing, he thought, as it gave his fresh-faced looks a mildly piratical air.

       A knock on the door brought colour to his cheeks, as if his self-satisfied contemplation had been witnessed. ‘Come in!’ he said.

       It was Manners, the old family retainer who had served his grandfather. ‘Begging your pardon, Master George, but your mother would like to speak to you before you go down.’

       George sighed. The guests would be here soon. Couldn’t it wait?

       ‘All right, Manners, I’ll be down presently, and less of the “Master George”, if you please. I’m eighteen and a commissioned officer in the British Army. “Mr Hart” will suffice.’

       Manners raised his eyebrows. ‘As you wish, Master  . . . um  . . . Mr Hart.’

       George heard the door close and took a moment to try and smooth the unruly black curls at his temples; but no amount of water, patted on with his fingers, seemed to do the trick. He gave up and followed Manners down to his mother’s sitting room on the second floor, entering without knocking.

       His mother was seated on the sofa in quiet contemplation. As he bent down to embrace her, George marvelled again at her ageless beauty. Clad in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder blue velvet gown, complete with train and elaborate overskirt, she seemed to him more striking than ever. Yet her expression was pained, as if she had something unpleasant to say. ‘What is it, Mother?’ he asked.

       ‘Sit down, Georgie,’ she said, patting the sofa beside her. ‘Now that you’re eighteen, there’s something I must tell you. Before I do, I want you to know that the day you were presented with the sword at Sandhurst was the proudest of my life. I never wanted you to join the army, but I made a promise years ago, and I’ve stood by it.’

       ‘What promise and to whom?’

       ‘To your father. Darling, what I’m about to tell you will come as quite a shock. Try not to be angry with me.’

       ‘I could never be angry with you, Mother. Just tell me.’

       She took a deep breath. ‘You know I’ve always told you that your father and I never married and that he died at sea. Well, the first part is true, but not the second. He’s very much alive.’

       George’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you being serious? My father alive! Why would you keep this from me?’

       ‘I had my reasons, darling, please believe me.’

       ‘What reasons?’

       ‘He made me promise, shortly after your birth, that in return for his anonymity I would receive money for your upkeep and, when the time came, he would arrange for you to become an officer in a cavalry regiment. I kept that promise. If I had not, he would have cut us off without a penny. Who do you think paid for your education?’

       ‘You, of course: you’re a famous actress.’

       ‘I was a famous actress, Georgie, but not any more. I’m thirty-six, for goodness’ sake, and well past my prime. I haven’t played a leading role for more than three years. It’s your father’s money that’s been keeping us afloat, but that stops on your eighteenth birthday – today. From now on we’re on our own.’

       ‘Mother, stop!’ said George raising his hands, palms outwards. ‘This is too much to take in. You say I have a father who refuses to acknowledge me. Why? What sort of man abandons his infant son?’

       ‘The sort that’s married,’ sighed his mother.

       ‘Mother. I despair of your judgement sometimes.’

       ‘That’s not fair. I’ve had lovers, and have never denied it, but my priority has always been you. I’m sorry I lied about your father, but I really had no option. I’ve always wanted the best for you, and only he could provide it.’

       ‘Have you any idea, Mother, how hard it was for me at Harrow and Sandhurst? The fatherless bastard with a touch of the tarbrush, that’s what they called me. Now you tell me my father is alive but won’t see me. That’s almost worse. But it explains one thing that’s been bothering me: why a crack regiment like the KDG would accept a social misfit like me. My father must be a man of considerable influence.’

       ‘He is. I can’t say any more than that. If it had been up to me you would never have known of his existence. But there’s another reason why I let you become a soldier, and why I’m telling you now. It’s because your father held out the promise of a sizeable legacy if you made a name for yourself. I don’t know the details, but if you want to find out what they are, I suggest you read this.’ She handed him a small cream envelope she had been holding. ‘It arrived this morning.’

       The envelope was addressed to ‘George Arthur Hart, Esq.’ George broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of writing paper. It came from a firm of solicitors in the City of London that George had never heard of and its message was brief:

 

       Dear sir,

       My client, who has chosen to remain anonymous, has assigned you a considerable sum of money. Before any of this money can be made over to you, you must fulfil certain conditions laid down by my client. I can only reveal the nature of those conditions in person. I would be grateful, therefore, if you could reply by return to arrange a personal interview.

       Please accept my congratulations on reaching your majority.

       I am your humble and obedient servant,

       Josiah Ward

 

George handed the letter to his mother. ‘What can he mean? What conditions?’

       ‘I don’t know, Georgie. Your father said something about you achieving various goals by a certain age. What they are I’ve no idea.’

       ‘But why? Why not just leave me the money?’

       ‘He fears you won’t take your career seriously. He has other sons in the military, and they’ve all disappointed him.’

       ‘So I have half-brothers?’

       ‘Yes. But don’t ask me about them. I promised your father I would keep his identity secret, and I intend to honour that promise. He’s not a man to cross, Georgie, even if you are his son.’

       ‘So I’m supposed to ignore the fact that I have a father and brothers living, and go along with this charade?’

       His mother nodded.

       ‘Damned if I will,’ spat George.

       ‘Georgie, please, for me. I’ve been reliant on your father’s money, and now he’s stopped paying your annuity I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m already overdrawn at the bank, and if something doesn’t turn up soon I’ll be forced to sell the house. So please go and see the lawyer. Hear what he has to say.’

       George stood up and walked over to the fireplace, resting his hand on the mantel. He remained there for some time with his back to his mother. His thoughts were confused. He had no wish to please a father he had never known, who had all but abandoned him, yet he was curious to know his identity. Moreover, he had enjoyed his military training thus far and did not require bribes to give of his best; if anything, they might cause him to do something foolish and send him to an early grave. Yet his beloved mother clearly needed some urgent financial support to save her house, and how could he manage that on his army pay?

       At last he turned. ‘No good can come of this, Mother, but for your sake I will see this pen-pusher. You never know, Father’s conditions might be easy to comply with and we’ll both be rich. Now can we say no more on the subject, and enjoy one last evening of fine food and wine before the purse strings are tightened?’

       His mother rose and embaced her son. ‘Of course, darling,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Thank you.’

 

George had always loved London, and he revelled in the bustling sights and sounds of the greatest urban centre in the world as his cab took him back in time from the vaulted splendour of Brunel’s Paddington Station to the Jacobean elegance of Gray’s Inn Square in the City of London. It was still early, with little horse-traffic on the streets, and the driver was able to take the more direct, but usually busy, northern route along Marylebone and Euston roads, down Gray’s Inn Road and into the square through an arched entrance topped with the image of Pegasus.

       ‘Whoa!’ shouted the driver, causing the cab to come to a jerky halt. ‘Number One, sir, as you requested.’

       George was confronted by a beautiful red-brick townhouse, the first of a terrace. To the right of the front door was a small brass plaque that read, ‘Ward & Mills, Solicitors-at-Law’. A prosperous law firm if ever I saw one, thought George as he rapped on the door with his cane. It was answered by a stooped old cove in a dark suit and starched collar.

       ‘Yes?’

       ‘My name’s George Hart. I’m here to see Mr Ward.’

       ‘Do come in.’

       The old man led the way down a dark corridor and into a spacious, oak-panelled office. George handed his hat, coat and cane to the man, expecting him to leave and fetch his master. Instead he hung George’s things on a coat-stand near the door and sat down behind the large desk.

       ‘Do sit down,’ he said.

       George’s brow furrowed. ‘Will Mr Ward be long?’

       ‘I am Mr Ward. Please, take a seat.’

       ‘But I thought you were . . .’

       ‘An understandable mistake,’ said the lawyer, nodding, his lined features easing into a slight smile. ‘After all, it’s not every day the senior partner of a respected City law firm answers his own door. No indeed. And why today?’ Ward tapped the side of his nose. ‘Confidentiality, Mr Hart. My client has impressed upon me the delicacy of this matter, and has insisted upon absolute secrecy, as is his right. He is – how can I put it? – a man of considerable rank and influence. Our most valuable client, if you like, and we do all we can to retain his confidence, which is why I’ve given the rest of the firm the morning off.’

       ‘Very sensible,’ said George, glancing at his pocket-watch. ‘But I don’t have long. I’ve got a train to catch to Manchester in under two hours. I’m expected at my new regiment at four in the afternoon and my commanding officer is not the type of man to be kept waiting.’

       ‘May I ask the name of the regiment?’

       ‘The First King’s Dragoon Guards.’

       ‘A fine corps with an illustrious history, Mr Hart. My congratulations on y