Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [118]
“‘Aim true, boys!’ he said. ‘Don’t let me down.’ ”
And with that, Hastings finally buried his face in his hands and wept. I was not far from sobbing myself, and Holmes’ stony features concealed little of his own emotion.
It would have been a mercy to end there, to offer the man our bleak thanks and leave him to his misery. Since that was not possible, we were obliged to regroup, to ply Hastings with food and drink until he had regained his equanimity. It was distressingly like the medical attention given a man to enable him to stand with his blindfold in place.
An hour later, with a degree of colour returned to those sallow cheeks, Holmes went after the last pieces.
“You told us he had a visitor.”
“The night before the execution, yes.”
“Only one?”
“Two, in addition to myself and his batman, but one was simply a representative from his men, offering their farewell greetings. The other was an officer, a staff major I had not seen before. He asked me to leave them alone, spent perhaps two hours with Gabriel, then left.”
“Did the boy tell you who this major was, what they said?”
“He was a friend, perhaps a family member. Some person of long acquaintance, to judge by the warmth of the handshake. And the man did seem to do some good. Before he arrived, Gabriel was growing increasingly agitated—pacing in his cell, unable to settle to prayer or conversation. He had been asking me if I would take a letter to the commanding officer. He had not written anything as yet, but he seemed to think that the letter might save him. I tried to press him—if there were mitigating circumstances, health problems, if he’d lied about his age, anything that might convert his sentence, that I could present in appeal—but before I could find out what he had in mind, this major arrived, and when he left, Gabriel’s demeanour had altered entirely. Whatever they said to each other, the boy’s fear had vanished, replaced by a calm acceptance that gave him a sort of wisdom beyond his years. He seemed to radiate holiness, if that doesn’t sound like some foolish fancy of an old man. He was very beautiful.”
“And you have no idea who this red-tab major was?”
“I don’t.”
“What did he look like? Tall, short, blond, what?”
“It was fully dark. The nights were brief then, but he came well after mid-night. He was shorter than I, but not much. I didn’t see his hair. If it is important, you might ask his family. They will almost certainly have saved the letter Gabriel wrote them.”
“It was brief and uninformative,” Holmes told him.
“No, no, I mean his last letter, the one he wrote and gave to the major.”
There was a moment’s startled silence. Then Holmes said grimly, “You had best tell us about this letter.”
“Do the family not have it? Perhaps they destroyed it. I can understand not wanting to have it as a reminder. It took Gabriel more than an hour to write, earlier that evening, before the visitor came. It came to several pages, I remember that, and was addressed to ‘Father.’ I did not ask to read it; I merely provided the paper and pen.”
“The only letter the family received was a rather grubby object of less than a page, informing them that he was going into battle on the morrow and that he loved them. It was undated.”
“Most of the soldiers carried similar notes, a final good-bye in case they were killed. But there was nothing else from the major?”
“There was no letter from any major.”
“Oh, dear Lord. It must have been lost. What a great pity. But he must have gone to see them, after the War. He was some sort of family, after all.”
“They had no word.”
“But . . . he was staff.” Meaning, staff officers,