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Authors: Anne Perry
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it,” Narraway replied cheerfully. “And my father’s wrath,” he added.
“Which makes you much like the rest of us,” Tierney commiserated. “Tell me more about Kent. Do you like the sea? I miss the sea, the smell of it and the cold, sharp spray on your face.”
Narraway stayed and talked for close to half an hour, until he could see that Tierney was exhausted. Eventhen the soldier did not want Narraway to go. It was not until he unwittingly drifted off into a fitful sleep that Narraway walked softly away, grateful to have two feet to stand on, no longer even aware of the smells of blood and carbolic and other odors he would rather not name.
H E NEEDED TO BE ALONE TO THINK . H E WAS TOO FILLED with emotion. The futility of it all was overwhelming him. Everyone knew at least something of the needless waste of the Crimean War and questioned the purpose of it. The army that had beaten Napoleon at Waterloo had rested too long on its laurels. It was now cumbersome and sorely in need of updating.
The idiocy of the grease on the bullets, which had fired a whole nation’s mutiny, was still being excused by some. But it could’ve been avoided so easily! Was there no communication, no Intelligence from which to foresee such errors and avoid them? Didn’t the army speak to the government, or listen?
This was such a small part of the whole, and yet thinking of a few greased bullet cases, Narraway sawthe enormity of even the smallest thoughtless act. One match could light the flames that consumed a nation, especially if the earth was already tinder dry—and no one had noticed that, either.
For everyone’s sake, he must do the job that Latimer had commanded him to do. If he did not defend Tallis sufficiently well, if the Court could not say honestly that he had been properly represented, then Tallis’s execution would in a sense also be murder. It would seem to others as if the regiment had convicted him in order to appear to have dealt with its own failure—vengeance rather than justice. They would look weak, not to be trusted; more than that, history would judge them to be without honor.
He continued walking, his feet making little sound on the earth and the thin winter grass. He passed walls broken by shellfire. They were crumbling away now. Ahead of him was a small, grassy mound with a few tangled bushes at the base of three trees. They were spindly, graceful. One was leafless and clearly dead. The other two still had rich evidence of life and in spring would no doubt have leaves, perhaps even blossoms.
A few yards beyond was a round stone-rimmed well. There was nothing there with which to draw water, no covering to keep falling leaves out, no rope or pulley, no bucket of any kind.
He stopped and looked at it curiously. There was an air of desolation about it.
“You can’t want to stand here, sir.”
He turned and saw Peterson a few feet away from him.
“Can’t I?” He was curious. Peterson’s face was white, his eyes hollow, without life. “Are you ill?” he asked suddenly. “You look—”
Peterson shivered. “That’s the well, sir—that well. You don’t want to stand here.”
“ ‘That well’?” Narraway repeated.
“Bibighar. They massacred the women and cut them up, cut their heads off, and their …” He made a helpless gesture, half indicating breasts. “That’s where they threw the bodies. Then their children after them. Scores of them, not all of them even dead. Filled it right up. You don’t want to stand here, sir.”
Narraway thought for a moment he was going to besick. His stomach clenched, and the outlines of the trees blurred in his vision. Sweat broke out on his skin. He turned to face Peterson.
“No,” he agreed. “I didn’t know it was … this well.” Carefully and a little unsteadily he put one foot in front of the other and walked away, Peterson a yard or so behind him.
He had heard the story in whispered pieces, conversations that trailed away into
“Which makes you much like the rest of us,” Tierney commiserated. “Tell me more about Kent. Do you like the sea? I miss the sea, the smell of it and the cold, sharp spray on your face.”
Narraway stayed and talked for close to half an hour, until he could see that Tierney was exhausted. Eventhen the soldier did not want Narraway to go. It was not until he unwittingly drifted off into a fitful sleep that Narraway walked softly away, grateful to have two feet to stand on, no longer even aware of the smells of blood and carbolic and other odors he would rather not name.
H E NEEDED TO BE ALONE TO THINK . H E WAS TOO FILLED with emotion. The futility of it all was overwhelming him. Everyone knew at least something of the needless waste of the Crimean War and questioned the purpose of it. The army that had beaten Napoleon at Waterloo had rested too long on its laurels. It was now cumbersome and sorely in need of updating.
The idiocy of the grease on the bullets, which had fired a whole nation’s mutiny, was still being excused by some. But it could’ve been avoided so easily! Was there no communication, no Intelligence from which to foresee such errors and avoid them? Didn’t the army speak to the government, or listen?
This was such a small part of the whole, and yet thinking of a few greased bullet cases, Narraway sawthe enormity of even the smallest thoughtless act. One match could light the flames that consumed a nation, especially if the earth was already tinder dry—and no one had noticed that, either.
For everyone’s sake, he must do the job that Latimer had commanded him to do. If he did not defend Tallis sufficiently well, if the Court could not say honestly that he had been properly represented, then Tallis’s execution would in a sense also be murder. It would seem to others as if the regiment had convicted him in order to appear to have dealt with its own failure—vengeance rather than justice. They would look weak, not to be trusted; more than that, history would judge them to be without honor.
He continued walking, his feet making little sound on the earth and the thin winter grass. He passed walls broken by shellfire. They were crumbling away now. Ahead of him was a small, grassy mound with a few tangled bushes at the base of three trees. They were spindly, graceful. One was leafless and clearly dead. The other two still had rich evidence of life and in spring would no doubt have leaves, perhaps even blossoms.
A few yards beyond was a round stone-rimmed well. There was nothing there with which to draw water, no covering to keep falling leaves out, no rope or pulley, no bucket of any kind.
He stopped and looked at it curiously. There was an air of desolation about it.
“You can’t want to stand here, sir.”
He turned and saw Peterson a few feet away from him.
“Can’t I?” He was curious. Peterson’s face was white, his eyes hollow, without life. “Are you ill?” he asked suddenly. “You look—”
Peterson shivered. “That’s the well, sir—that well. You don’t want to stand here.”
“ ‘That well’?” Narraway repeated.
“Bibighar. They massacred the women and cut them up, cut their heads off, and their …” He made a helpless gesture, half indicating breasts. “That’s where they threw the bodies. Then their children after them. Scores of them, not all of them even dead. Filled it right up. You don’t want to stand here, sir.”
Narraway thought for a moment he was going to besick. His stomach clenched, and the outlines of the trees blurred in his vision. Sweat broke out on his skin. He turned to face Peterson.
“No,” he agreed. “I didn’t know it was … this well.” Carefully and a little unsteadily he put one foot in front of the other and walked away, Peterson a yard or so behind him.
He had heard the story in whispered pieces, conversations that trailed away into
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