pale—sir!”
“Yes, it is,” Narraway agreed. “And after we are satisfied that he is the one who is responsible for all of it, we’ll hang him from the strongest branch and leave him there to swing. But after—not before.”
“He’s the only one who could have,” Peterson responded. “Captain Busby questioned everyone. There’s no one else it could be.”
“Then we’ll have no problem proving that at trial,” Narraway said, surprised that he was still reluctant to give up hope that there was some other explanation. “Tell me what happened when you got to the prison after the alarm went off.”
Peterson essentially repeated what Grant and Attwood had said. He chose slightly different words, more from his own vernacular, but the facts and emotions were the same. When he had finished, he kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance, where two young women were walking with children by their sides. Narraway thought of the woman he had met earlier, the children with their colored paper chains, Helena’s smile.
“We need this finished,” Peterson said quietly. He took a long breath and let it out slowly. He was not looking at Narraway, and yet he was very clearly speaking to him, his voice low and urgent. “Everything we thought we knew for certain has got blown away. People we trusted turned ’round and killed us, all over the place. But Christmas is Christmas, anywhere. We’ve got to remember who we are. What things are like at home. What we believe in, if you”—finally he turned and faced Narraway, meeting his eyes—“if you get what I mean, sir?”
“I get exactly what you mean, Private Peterson,” Narraway said, with an upsurge of emotion that took him by surprise. Peterson had appeared so ordinary, even tongue-tied, and yet he had explained the heart of what was needed better than any of the officers. “I’ll do the best I can.” He said it as if it were an oath. Then he stood up, and Peterson scrambled to his feet to salute him.
F INALLY , N ARRAWAY WENT TO THE HOSPITAL TO SEE THE surgeon, Major Rawlins.
Perhaps the only point in speaking with Rawlins was to be aware of what Busby might draw from him, although Narraway knew there was little he himself could do with the information. He was going through the motions, because he had been ordered to. He wished he could forget Tallis’s face, his eyes.
He went into the hospital building and walked along its almost-deserted corridors, passing a few orderlies, a couple of soldiers with bandaged wounds, one on crutches. He asked for Rawlins and was directed onward. The place smelled of blood, bodily waste, lye, and vinegar. His stomach clenched at it, and he wished he could hold his breath. How many men and women had bled to death here, or died of disease?
He found Rawlins busy stitching a surface wound in a man’s leg. Narraway had to wait until the doctor had finished and could give his attention to the matter that, for him, was far from urgent.
He had a small office, where he invited Narraway to sit down, waving him toward a rickety chair. He perched on the end of a table himself. Rawlins was a little morethan average height, broad-shouldered, perhaps in his forties. His fair hair showed streaks of gray only as the light caught it. His skin was deeply burned by many years in the Indian sun. He was a handsome man, far more obviously English-looking than Narraway himself. Narraway had heard that Rawlins had an Indian wife.
“Thought you’d be coming,” the doctor observed. “But there’s nothing I can say that’ll help you. Wish there were. I liked Tallis. He was a bit of a clown at times, but a damn good orderly. Would have made a good doctor, given the chance. Saved a few men’s lives with nerve and quick thinking.” His face was suddenly sad. “Don’t know what the devil happened to him. About the best thing you can do for him is not give him false hope. There’s only one way it can end.”
“He says he didn’t do it,”
“Yes, it is,” Narraway agreed. “And after we are satisfied that he is the one who is responsible for all of it, we’ll hang him from the strongest branch and leave him there to swing. But after—not before.”
“He’s the only one who could have,” Peterson responded. “Captain Busby questioned everyone. There’s no one else it could be.”
“Then we’ll have no problem proving that at trial,” Narraway said, surprised that he was still reluctant to give up hope that there was some other explanation. “Tell me what happened when you got to the prison after the alarm went off.”
Peterson essentially repeated what Grant and Attwood had said. He chose slightly different words, more from his own vernacular, but the facts and emotions were the same. When he had finished, he kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance, where two young women were walking with children by their sides. Narraway thought of the woman he had met earlier, the children with their colored paper chains, Helena’s smile.
“We need this finished,” Peterson said quietly. He took a long breath and let it out slowly. He was not looking at Narraway, and yet he was very clearly speaking to him, his voice low and urgent. “Everything we thought we knew for certain has got blown away. People we trusted turned ’round and killed us, all over the place. But Christmas is Christmas, anywhere. We’ve got to remember who we are. What things are like at home. What we believe in, if you”—finally he turned and faced Narraway, meeting his eyes—“if you get what I mean, sir?”
“I get exactly what you mean, Private Peterson,” Narraway said, with an upsurge of emotion that took him by surprise. Peterson had appeared so ordinary, even tongue-tied, and yet he had explained the heart of what was needed better than any of the officers. “I’ll do the best I can.” He said it as if it were an oath. Then he stood up, and Peterson scrambled to his feet to salute him.
F INALLY , N ARRAWAY WENT TO THE HOSPITAL TO SEE THE surgeon, Major Rawlins.
Perhaps the only point in speaking with Rawlins was to be aware of what Busby might draw from him, although Narraway knew there was little he himself could do with the information. He was going through the motions, because he had been ordered to. He wished he could forget Tallis’s face, his eyes.
He went into the hospital building and walked along its almost-deserted corridors, passing a few orderlies, a couple of soldiers with bandaged wounds, one on crutches. He asked for Rawlins and was directed onward. The place smelled of blood, bodily waste, lye, and vinegar. His stomach clenched at it, and he wished he could hold his breath. How many men and women had bled to death here, or died of disease?
He found Rawlins busy stitching a surface wound in a man’s leg. Narraway had to wait until the doctor had finished and could give his attention to the matter that, for him, was far from urgent.
He had a small office, where he invited Narraway to sit down, waving him toward a rickety chair. He perched on the end of a table himself. Rawlins was a little morethan average height, broad-shouldered, perhaps in his forties. His fair hair showed streaks of gray only as the light caught it. His skin was deeply burned by many years in the Indian sun. He was a handsome man, far more obviously English-looking than Narraway himself. Narraway had heard that Rawlins had an Indian wife.
“Thought you’d be coming,” the doctor observed. “But there’s nothing I can say that’ll help you. Wish there were. I liked Tallis. He was a bit of a clown at times, but a damn good orderly. Would have made a good doctor, given the chance. Saved a few men’s lives with nerve and quick thinking.” His face was suddenly sad. “Don’t know what the devil happened to him. About the best thing you can do for him is not give him false hope. There’s only one way it can end.”
“He says he didn’t do it,”
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