Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [139]
I should have just hauled that bloody wire out there myself, ordered the men to stay behind, and strung it alone. Jerry might have missed a single figure out there, and I could have protected my men.
I just never imagined it might come to this. Oh, God, this is going to be the death of my parents, no matter how it turns out. A Hughenfort, convicted of refusing an order. Cowardice. Disgrace.
When I’m alone, I weep. The padre is here a lot, so I keep myself together for him. Thank God Hélène hasn’t come, I should collapse completely in the agony of it all. It would be a blessing if she heard nothing about it, until it is over. One way or another.
2 August, afternoon
Death? Shot, by my own men? No, that’s
God help me, I can’t
Unthinkable. I can’t think about it. My mind won’t
I’ve sent for the Major, he’ll put an end to this.
3 August, 4:30 a.m.
The Maj. sent a message that he’d come at two in the morning. I sent the padre away to get some rest, and so I could think. I knew that if the news had been good, he’d have sent it, not come himself.
The CinC himself, the Maj. told me, when he heard my true name, said he was sorry, that it was out of his hands. That discipline knows no titles. He’s right, of course, although I hadn’t thought the Army’s hold on the common soldier that precarious, to require such an iron grip over its junior officers. He stayed for a long time, from two nearly to dawn. We talked. We’d never really talked before, he never seemed my sort, but it was good to have at my side a man of my own people, an uncle who knew the land and the trees I loved from a child, who understood the difference between the upper lawns and the park, who’d seen the sun rise over The Circles, who had fished Justice Pond in the spring.
He promises me that the Pater and Mama needn’t be told. The letter’s nearly the same as for an honourable death, now. So grief, but no shame. No blot of cowardice on the name. No dark cloud over Justice Hall.
Under those circumstances, I can—I nearly wrote “live with this.” And I suppose I can, for the hours left me.
He left a few minutes ago. I asked McFarlane to give him my letters and papers, to hand them personally to my parents on his next leave, along with the letter I wrote to say good-bye and to introduce them to Hélène. This journal I’ve kept by me, as my private friend. I’ll ask the padre to send it home when Pater asks him for it. Pater shall have to judge whether or not Mother is strong enough.
Hélène, when you read this, know that you were in my thoughts to the end. Know that the only regret I hold is that my decision stole the years of joy we would have had together. Kiss my mother and father for me. I know you will love them, given time.
Dawn draws near. The padre prays with me, and sits in silence when I wish to add to these words. He is a good man. I asked him to read to me from the fifth chapter of Amos. He hesitated, and then did so. When he had finished, I saw tears in his eyes. I have none in mine. I feel only a chasm of regret deeper than any sapper’s tunnel, and fear—not of death, I am beyond that now, thank God, but fear that my body will fail me in the morning, and cringe from the wall. Why should shame be such a terrible threat, greater than death itself? A thing you can’t eat or drink, all-powerful in a man’s life. I suppose because, when it comes down to it, there is nothing but honour and pride.
It was a blessing to hear the word “Justice” from the padre’s mouth. For a moment, I was home again.
Here it comes. For those I love, for Justice, may I prove myself strong. Justitia fortitudo mea est.
Gabriel Adrian Thomas Hughenfort
3 August 1918
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Iris spent two days