Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [15]
Prentice turned to Joseph and smiled, a cold, satisfied curve of the lips. “I’m sure he doesn’t,” he agreed. “He’ll do the right thing, for the good of the army as a whole, toward winning the war, whether he enjoys doing it, or it’s personally difficult for him. He mustn’t let like or dislike for a man stand in his way, or anybody else’s civilian beliefs. Nor mine.” He smiled even more widely. “Or yours, Chaplain. He’ll find the truth. But then I imagine as a man of God, you’re for the truth, too.”
Joseph knew he had lost the argument as he felt it slip out of his hands, and he saw it in Watkins’s face.
“What happens to a man who has deliberately injured himself?” Prentice went on. “You owe it to the rest of his unit to deal with it, don’t you? The one thing I’ve noticed out here, even in a few days, is the loyalty, the extraordinary depth of friendship between men, the willingness to share, to risk and even to sacrifice.” There was a note of envy in his voice, he hurried his words with an underlying edge of anger. “They are owed honor, and the loyalty of those who have the power to protect them, and the duty to lead.”
Watkins looked at him in silent misery.
Joseph searched desperately for something to say, but what was there? Marie O’Day knew that Corliss’s wound could have been self-inflicted, even Sam feared it. He had said Corliss was close to losing his nerve.
“It’s a . . .” he started to say, looking for a medical excuse.
Prentice ignored him, keeping his eyes on Watkins. “Matter of military duty to collect the evidence,” he finished the sentence. “Find the truth. There must be someone who saw it. The only reason not to speak to them is that you fear what they will say.” He smiled for an instant, then it disappeared. “I’m sure that isn’t the case . . . is it?”
“ ’Course it isn’t!” Watkins said tightly, his lips drawn into a thin line. “I’ll look into it. If there’s evidence, there’ll be a court-martial. But it’s none o’ your business, mister! You get the hell out of here. Go do your job, an’ leave us to do ours!” He swiveled on his heel and strode out past Joseph, too angry to speak, and perhaps ashamed that he had allowed himself to be trapped.
Joseph had failed. Far from protecting Corliss, he had been instrumental in allowing Prentice to force Watkins into investigating the incident, and Joseph already felt the sick fear that Corliss was guilty. People had different breaking points. A good commander could tell when it was coming. Sam had seen it and tried to protect him. It was himself Corliss had hurt, no one else. He had not left his post, or fallen asleep, or allowed anyone else to take the blame. It was one of those cases where turning a blind eye would possibly have saved him, given him time to recover at least his self-esteem, the control to build something out of what was left. Prentice had no idea what any of the men faced, let alone sappers. Joseph should have found a way to prevent this.
He went back and talked with Marie O’Day. She was furious with Prentice, but she could not help.
They could all hear the bombardment. The heavy artillery seemed to have a very good range tonight. The walls shivered and the lights swayed, casting wavering shadows on the walls. About ten o’clock the first casualties came in: some with broken arms and legs, a man with a deep shrapnel wound in the chest, another with a foot blown off. The surgeons operated in desperate haste. The smell of blood filled the air. Everybody seemed to be splashed and stained with red.
The night stretched on. The noise of the artillery stopped and started, stopped and started. Prentice was somewhere around. Joseph saw him half a dozen times; once he was carrying tea, more often he was helping a wounded man or lifting a stretcher. His clothes were now as creased and bloodstained as anyone else’s, his fair skin pale from fatigue and perhaps horror as well, his