offer pity.
“Yes, Sergeant, I know that,” Narraway agreed quietly. “Corporal Grant said you found traces of blood, and boot prints. Although I suppose the prints could have been anyone’s. Nobody saw him, is that right?”
“Nobody that’s saying so,” Attwood agreed.
“He must have had blood on him,” Narraway pointed out.
“To some people, one Sikh soldier looks like another,” Attwood said drily. “And some folks are too scared, keeping their eyes shut to what they don’t want to see. Everybody’s frightened and sick and too tired to see where they’re going half the time, never mind tell oneSikh from another. Lost too many people, sir. Too many women and children. What kind o’ people kill women an’ children, I ask you?” He blinked, glaring at Narraway. “Don’t you string this thing out, sir. We need to finish it. Get it all squared away before Christmas. Remember ’oo we are and why we’re ’ere. Get me?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I do,” Narraway answered him. “But it’ll never be over if we don’t do it properly.”
“Then do it properly—sir,” Attwood said abruptly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to my duty.” He saluted and, without waiting for Narraway’s permission, turned on his heel and marched back up toward the magazine.
N ARRAWAY FOUND P ETERSON , THE THIRD MAN TO ARRIVE at the prison, sitting at ease under a tamarind tree. He was off duty for another hour or so and was smoking a cigar alone, staring into the distance. He was a private soldier of two or three years’ experience. When Narraway stopped in front of him and asked his name, he scrambled to his feet and saluted.
“Sir,” he said obediently, stubbing the cigar out with reluctance.
“At ease, Private Peterson,” Narraway replied. “I don’t think I’ll take up much of your time.” He looked at the dry grass the man had been sitting on and decided it looked comfortable enough. He sat down gingerly and waited until Peterson did also.
“Tell me about the escape of Dhuleep Singh,” Narraway said.
Peterson looked at him with as much distaste as he dared show. “You the officer who’s going to defend Tallis?”
“Someone has to,” Narraway replied.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He added “sir” after a moment’s hesitation. It was not outrightly rude, but bordering on it.
“I’ve been in India nearly a year,” Narraway replied. “I’ve only been in Cawnpore for a couple of weeks. Why? Is there something I should know?”
Peterson kept his expression as bland as he could. “Thought so. You wouldn’t defend Tallis if you’d been here any longer.”
“Why not? Don’t you think he should be tried?”
Peterson remained silent.
“You’d rather we just hang him and be done with it?” Narraway asked. “You’re right, I haven’t been here very long, not long enough to realize we’d sunk that far, anyway. Is there anybody else we should hang, while we’re about it?”
Peterson flushed. “No, sir. I just meant … I don’t know how you can defend the man, that’s all. The whole patrol was wiped out—all but Tierney, and he’ll likely not make it. That’s all down to Tallis, because if Dhuleep hadn’t escaped, that ambush wouldn’t have happened. If they’d been attacked out in the open, it would’ve been a fair fight.”
“There’s nothing fair about war, Private Peterson. I thought you would have known that, after three years’ experience. But trials are supposed to be fair. That’s the whole point of them. Justice, not revenge. We’re meant to be above hanging a man just because we think he might have done something we don’t like.”
Peterson swiveled around to face Narraway, his eyes blazing. “Something we don’t like?” He all but choked on the words. “He let Dhuleep out to betray the patrol so they were butchered. And one of them slashed poorChuttur Singh to death. I think ‘don’t like’ is a bit
“Yes, Sergeant, I know that,” Narraway agreed quietly. “Corporal Grant said you found traces of blood, and boot prints. Although I suppose the prints could have been anyone’s. Nobody saw him, is that right?”
“Nobody that’s saying so,” Attwood agreed.
“He must have had blood on him,” Narraway pointed out.
“To some people, one Sikh soldier looks like another,” Attwood said drily. “And some folks are too scared, keeping their eyes shut to what they don’t want to see. Everybody’s frightened and sick and too tired to see where they’re going half the time, never mind tell oneSikh from another. Lost too many people, sir. Too many women and children. What kind o’ people kill women an’ children, I ask you?” He blinked, glaring at Narraway. “Don’t you string this thing out, sir. We need to finish it. Get it all squared away before Christmas. Remember ’oo we are and why we’re ’ere. Get me?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I do,” Narraway answered him. “But it’ll never be over if we don’t do it properly.”
“Then do it properly—sir,” Attwood said abruptly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to my duty.” He saluted and, without waiting for Narraway’s permission, turned on his heel and marched back up toward the magazine.
N ARRAWAY FOUND P ETERSON , THE THIRD MAN TO ARRIVE at the prison, sitting at ease under a tamarind tree. He was off duty for another hour or so and was smoking a cigar alone, staring into the distance. He was a private soldier of two or three years’ experience. When Narraway stopped in front of him and asked his name, he scrambled to his feet and saluted.
“Sir,” he said obediently, stubbing the cigar out with reluctance.
“At ease, Private Peterson,” Narraway replied. “I don’t think I’ll take up much of your time.” He looked at the dry grass the man had been sitting on and decided it looked comfortable enough. He sat down gingerly and waited until Peterson did also.
“Tell me about the escape of Dhuleep Singh,” Narraway said.
Peterson looked at him with as much distaste as he dared show. “You the officer who’s going to defend Tallis?”
“Someone has to,” Narraway replied.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He added “sir” after a moment’s hesitation. It was not outrightly rude, but bordering on it.
“I’ve been in India nearly a year,” Narraway replied. “I’ve only been in Cawnpore for a couple of weeks. Why? Is there something I should know?”
Peterson kept his expression as bland as he could. “Thought so. You wouldn’t defend Tallis if you’d been here any longer.”
“Why not? Don’t you think he should be tried?”
Peterson remained silent.
“You’d rather we just hang him and be done with it?” Narraway asked. “You’re right, I haven’t been here very long, not long enough to realize we’d sunk that far, anyway. Is there anybody else we should hang, while we’re about it?”
Peterson flushed. “No, sir. I just meant … I don’t know how you can defend the man, that’s all. The whole patrol was wiped out—all but Tierney, and he’ll likely not make it. That’s all down to Tallis, because if Dhuleep hadn’t escaped, that ambush wouldn’t have happened. If they’d been attacked out in the open, it would’ve been a fair fight.”
“There’s nothing fair about war, Private Peterson. I thought you would have known that, after three years’ experience. But trials are supposed to be fair. That’s the whole point of them. Justice, not revenge. We’re meant to be above hanging a man just because we think he might have done something we don’t like.”
Peterson swiveled around to face Narraway, his eyes blazing. “Something we don’t like?” He all but choked on the words. “He let Dhuleep out to betray the patrol so they were butchered. And one of them slashed poorChuttur Singh to death. I think ‘don’t like’ is a bit
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