The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [55]
Hale thought a moment. “How I am remembered will likely be decided by your army, sir. If you have the conscience to bury me in a forgotten grave and give my passing no mention, then, Captain, I will have failed indeed. But only because General Washington will not know that I performed my duty.”
Hale heard a voice outside, and Montresor stood, moved to the opening in the tent, said something, looked back toward Hale. Hale did not need to be told. He stood, moved to the opening of the tent.
Outside, the man who had led him across the open ground was waiting impatiently. Hale had come to know the man as Cunningham, the provost marshal, the man whose duties included the disposition of condemned prisoners. He was a big, grotesque man, spoke in a rough voice, a crude accent Hale could not place. The man’s uniform was merely a huge black ill-fitting coat, his arms extending below the sleeves. He grabbed Hale by the shirt, pulled him forward, spun him around, and Montresor said, “That is hardly necessary, Marshal. He will not resist you.”
Cunningham ignored him, and Hale’s hands were clamped together behind his back. He felt Cunningham’s hard grip, wrapping something around his wrists, the man’s rum-soaked breath engulfing him. He spun Hale around, faced him, and Hale saw the man’s hideous smile. Cunningham said, “There you go, now, rebel. All snug.”
Hale glanced at Montresor, who was looking away, the sadness obvious on the man’s face. Hale said, “I would request a clergyman, sir.”
Montresor looked at Cunningham, a short questioning nod, but Hale could see that Montresor had no authority. Cunningham made a small grunt, said, “Pray to the devil, rebel.”
The guards were there now, and Cunningham grabbed Hale’s collar, pulled him roughly away from the tent, Hale stumbling as the big man dragged him. He tried to work his legs, noticed a wagon parked beside an old stout apple tree. Beside the wagon was a shallow hole, fresh earth, and a wooden coffin.
He had no air in his lungs, felt his legs give way again, but Cunningham held him up, the guards close behind him. Suddenly he was pulled up into the wagon, the hard wood rocking beneath him. He found his balance, straightened his legs, could see out now, an artillery park, rows of cannon, more wagons. There were a few soldiers gathering, and a small group of civilians. Now he saw children, running out across the open ground, some sort of game, the children oblivious to him, to what this all meant. He said again, “A clergyman . . .” but the rope was over his head now, Cunningham tightening it roughly on his throat, the words choked away. He tried to say a prayer, could not be angry at Cunningham, the man doing his job. There is no evil in that. Hale looked at the faces watching him, most of them expressionless, some turning away, and he saw Montresor, the only emotion he could see, the sadness etched hard in the engineer’s face. He wanted to talk to the man again, wished there had been more time, something intriguing, an educated, civilized man, serving in the uncivilized hell of war. But it is what we must do, it is the time we live in. He remembered the meeting with Washington, and Colonel Knowlton, the importance, the seriousness, the commander in chief speaking to him with such quiet respect. He had kept that moment with him, Washington’s concern, the weight of all of this on the man’s shoulders, all of the war, all that this could mean. I have been a small part of it. I hope that somehow he will know that. I hope he will understand. I may have failed my mission, but I was some small part. I was . . . useful.
He tried to turn his head, but the rope rubbed him hard. He could only see Montresor, wondered why the man still watched him, realized, perhaps he has to. There is something in the man that will keep him here, some need for penance perhaps, that will make him see this. Thank you, sir.
Behind him, Cunningham said something, and Hale felt the wagon lurch