Read Online A Christmas Garland by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Perry
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silence. Cawnpore had been relieved on July 17, about five months ago now, but the ghosts of the siege were everywhere. The heat had been appalling, over 120 degrees in the shade. The horrified soldiers of the relief had found the corpses of more than four hundred men, women, and children.
In the Bibighar—the huge, two-roomed house in which Nana Sahib had kept the women of his pleasure during his occupation of the town—the soldiers had found the walls scarred low with the marks of sword cuts where women had been beheaded while on their knees. It was littered with hair and the combs that held it dressed, children’s shoes, hats, bonnets, the torn pages of Bibles and prayer books. They had looked down to find their boots submerged in blood.
“I’d slit him open and pull his entrails out,” Peterson said quietly, staring into the distance. “And burn them in front of him, still attached.”
Narraway found his voice with difficulty. “Nobody would charge you for it,” he said, coughing a little to clear his throat. “But if they did, I’d defend you. You wouldn’t need any better skill than what I’ve got to get you off. I don’t know how anybody here is still sane.”
“Maybe we aren’t,” Peterson replied. “I wonder sometimes if I am. I wake up in the middle of the night and I can still smell it. Funny that, isn’t it? I can’t always see it, but I can smell it, and I can hear the flies. Do you believe in God?”
Narraway was about to answer automatically, but then he stopped. Peterson deserved better than that. Narraway himself needed more than a trite response.
“Well, I certainly believe in hell,” he said slowly, selecting his words. “So I suppose I must believe in heaven, too. And if there’s a heaven and a hell, then I think there must be a God. All this is unbearable if there isn’t.”
Peterson shook his head. “It’s not the same as good and evil. Nobody doubts that. But is there anybody in control of it? I wonder sometimes if there isn’t. If it alljust happens, and that’s all there is. Is there any sense, any justice? Or is it up to us to make sense and justice?”
“That’s a hell of a question, Private Peterson. But I suppose Bibighar is as good a place as any to ask it.”
Narraway thought for a while. It was also a place that demanded answers to such questions, not just for Peterson, or the Court that was set for tomorrow, or Tierney, or John Tallis. He needed them for himself.
Peterson waited.
“If there was somebody in control, you’d think they’d make a better job of it, I suppose,” Narraway began. “What happened here seems beyond ordinary human evil. It’s as if someone opened a door into … something else. But if hell were not more despicable than anything a sane man can imagine, then maybe heaven wouldn’t be higher than even our most exquisite dreams.”
Peterson shook his head slightly. “Wouldn’t you accept heaven a little lower if hell could be … not this bad?”
“I don’t think anybody asked me,” Narraway replied seriously. “But if they had, I don’t know what I would have said. After all, we haven’t seen the heaven part of it—only this.”
“But you believe in it?”
Narraway suddenly remembered the blue paper chain, and all the women who were going to celebrate Christmas, for their children. “Yes, I do,” he answered. “Lots of people do, no matter what happens. We pick up the pieces and start again, for the sake of those who believe in us. If we can do it, then the best in us is trusting in something, reaching toward something. And that’s what’s important.”
“Reaching toward God?” Peterson asked. “Sir?”
“I think so. Something that is as good as this is awful. Believe it, at least until you wake up dead and find it isn’t true.”
Peterson’s face relaxed in a smile. “I didn’t expect you to be so honest. Thanks. But I’d still leave this place, if I were you.” He motioned to the well in
In the Bibighar—the huge, two-roomed house in which Nana Sahib had kept the women of his pleasure during his occupation of the town—the soldiers had found the walls scarred low with the marks of sword cuts where women had been beheaded while on their knees. It was littered with hair and the combs that held it dressed, children’s shoes, hats, bonnets, the torn pages of Bibles and prayer books. They had looked down to find their boots submerged in blood.
“I’d slit him open and pull his entrails out,” Peterson said quietly, staring into the distance. “And burn them in front of him, still attached.”
Narraway found his voice with difficulty. “Nobody would charge you for it,” he said, coughing a little to clear his throat. “But if they did, I’d defend you. You wouldn’t need any better skill than what I’ve got to get you off. I don’t know how anybody here is still sane.”
“Maybe we aren’t,” Peterson replied. “I wonder sometimes if I am. I wake up in the middle of the night and I can still smell it. Funny that, isn’t it? I can’t always see it, but I can smell it, and I can hear the flies. Do you believe in God?”
Narraway was about to answer automatically, but then he stopped. Peterson deserved better than that. Narraway himself needed more than a trite response.
“Well, I certainly believe in hell,” he said slowly, selecting his words. “So I suppose I must believe in heaven, too. And if there’s a heaven and a hell, then I think there must be a God. All this is unbearable if there isn’t.”
Peterson shook his head. “It’s not the same as good and evil. Nobody doubts that. But is there anybody in control of it? I wonder sometimes if there isn’t. If it alljust happens, and that’s all there is. Is there any sense, any justice? Or is it up to us to make sense and justice?”
“That’s a hell of a question, Private Peterson. But I suppose Bibighar is as good a place as any to ask it.”
Narraway thought for a while. It was also a place that demanded answers to such questions, not just for Peterson, or the Court that was set for tomorrow, or Tierney, or John Tallis. He needed them for himself.
Peterson waited.
“If there was somebody in control, you’d think they’d make a better job of it, I suppose,” Narraway began. “What happened here seems beyond ordinary human evil. It’s as if someone opened a door into … something else. But if hell were not more despicable than anything a sane man can imagine, then maybe heaven wouldn’t be higher than even our most exquisite dreams.”
Peterson shook his head slightly. “Wouldn’t you accept heaven a little lower if hell could be … not this bad?”
“I don’t think anybody asked me,” Narraway replied seriously. “But if they had, I don’t know what I would have said. After all, we haven’t seen the heaven part of it—only this.”
“But you believe in it?”
Narraway suddenly remembered the blue paper chain, and all the women who were going to celebrate Christmas, for their children. “Yes, I do,” he answered. “Lots of people do, no matter what happens. We pick up the pieces and start again, for the sake of those who believe in us. If we can do it, then the best in us is trusting in something, reaching toward something. And that’s what’s important.”
“Reaching toward God?” Peterson asked. “Sir?”
“I think so. Something that is as good as this is awful. Believe it, at least until you wake up dead and find it isn’t true.”
Peterson’s face relaxed in a smile. “I didn’t expect you to be so honest. Thanks. But I’d still leave this place, if I were you.” He motioned to the well in
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