He wished he could tell her of Northrup’s death and the things he was afraid of now, but military censorship would only cut it out. He knew better than to try. Instead he told her how much he missed the richness of summer at home, the quiet lanes, the smell of growing things, the sight of horses leaning into the plow, men laughing over pints of ale after the work was done, faces burned by the sun.
He missed the silence. His ears ached for it. He missed dew on the grass, and the smell of clean earth. He told her all of that, more clearly than he ever had before, and setting the words down almost brought it within his grasp again.
There was a sharp rap on the wood by the sacking curtain, jerking him back to the present. The moment he answered, General Northrup came in. Joseph was startled, having assumed that he had left. Now his face was as pale as before, and his body as stiff, but his eyes were hot with anger. He did not attempt to conceal it, but stood swaying very slightly on the damp earth floor, his hands locked behind his back. He spoke before Joseph could rise to his feet.
“Captain Reavley, I have to tell you that I find morale among your men so low that they have descended to the grossest disloyalty toward their officers. There is a laxity that I cannot and will not tolerate.” He spoke very clearly, enunciating each word. “I have even heard oblique suggestions that my son was less than competent in his command. It is a slur on the name of a fine man who gave his life in the service of his country, and it is…obscene.” He took a deep breath. “In the name of decency it must cease. The men responsible for such traitorous talk must be identified and punished.” He drew his shoulders back even further. “I am disappointed in you, sir, that you did not take action sooner than this to stop such infamy.”
Joseph was standing now. He felt the heat burn up his cheeks, not for shame that he had not defended Major Northrup, but because he had allowed himself to hope that the general would leave without hearing it.
“Perhaps you believed that you were being loyal to Colonel Hook,” Northrup went on. “You are mistaken. The ultimate loyalty is to the truth. You do the army no service by keeping silent while slander and betrayal go on. As a man of God your duty is to the highest principles of honor. Your own convenience is nothing.” He sliced his hand in the air, then put it back stiffly to his side again. “You have let down your cloth, sir. I will not permit you, or any man, to dishonor my son. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” Joseph’s mind raced. How could he respond to this man who was so deeply outraged by what was essentially the truth? If only right were as clear as General Northrup imagined. Did one place ideals of truth before compassion for men? This was a hell where just to survive took all a man could dredge up out of his soul. Hope and sanity were lights on a hill the other side of the abyss.
Northrup was waiting for an answer. His son was dead and his grief was insupportable. What good was forcing him to see the truth?
“Well?” Northrup’s temper broke. “Don’t just stand there, man! Account for yourself!”
How many explanations were there that would not wound irrevocably? They would sound to Northrup like lies and excuses anyway.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Joseph began. “Major Northrup replaced a man deeply respected. It was after that that we suffered a great many losses, both wounded and dead. Some of the men blamed Major Northrup for giving orders that cost many of those lives.”
“Rubbish!” Northrup snapped. “To blame an officer for necessary orders is close to mutiny, sir. Which you must know as well as I do! You may be a man of the cloth, but you are in the army. How long have you been out here?” His eyes narrowed and he looked Joseph up and down critically.
“Since September 1914, sir,” Joseph answered him equally curtly.
Northrup swallowed. It was far longer than he had been there himself. In that instant Joseph knew it, and Northrup saw that he did.
“With these same men?” Northrup asked more quietly.
“Yes, sir, those that are still alive. A lot of them are replacements, recently recruited. Half the old regiment’s gone.”
Northrup sighed, his face ashen. He swallowed convulsively. “They are still at fault, Captain. They have no right to question an officer’s order in the field. That is not the worst of it. I have…I have even heard suggestions that his own men are glad he is dead.” He did not add the last fearful thought to that, but it was in the air unsaid.
Joseph had to face it. “If you are asking what I think you are, sir, then that is nonsense. There is always some degree of loose talk. The men are facing death. Most of them will not come back, and they know it. They have two or three weeks to live, at most. Some will die easily, by one bullet through the head, like Major Northrup. For others it will be far harder. I think we should ignore the more foolish things that are said.”
General Northrup’s voice was hoarse. “Do you? Do you indeed? Well, I do not. Stupidity I can allow. They are, as you say, ordinary men facing a grim death. But I will not have my son’s name slandered. And if you will not stop it, then I will speak to Colonel Hook.”
“General Northrup!” Joseph knew the man was going to provoke the very disaster he most feared. Of course he could not bear to think his son was a fool, or that his men had hated him, but by forbidding them to say so, he would force the truth into the open. Someone’s temper would snap, and he would say it simply to defend himself or, more probably, to defend someone else.
“What is it, Captain?” Northrup said tersely.
“Sir, you can command men to obey you, and shoot them if they don’t. You cannot command them to respect you. That you have to earn, especially after you have given orders that have cost lives and achieved nothing.”
Northrup’s face mottled dull red. “Are you saying that my son gave such orders, Captain Reavley?”
“I’m saying that no one can govern what the men think, sir. When people speak foolishly, because they are exhausted, beaten, and afraid, it is better to overlook—and forget.”
“That is the coward’s way, sir,” Northrup replied. “If you will do nothing, then I shall speak to Colonel Hook. Good day, Captain Reavley.” He turned and went out without a salute, leaving Joseph standing alone.
That night the bombardment was heavy. The rain never ceased. It looked like it would be the wettest August anyone had ever known. By morning the casualties were heavy, some of them from drowning.
By midday Joseph was so bone weary his body ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes felt as if they had burning grit in them. His clothes were stiff with blood and his skin was rubbed raw.
He had worked with Cavan in the field hospital most of the night, helping in every way that he could. The man seemed never to cease working. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen, but he moved from one broken body to the next like a man in some terrible dream.
That afternoon Joseph was standing in the supply trench, eating a heel of bread and trying to keep it out of the rain, when Barshey Gee came up to him.
“Sorry, sir,” Barshey said, screwing his face up. “Colonel Hook would like to see you, sir. Right away.” He looked unhappy. There was a scar down his cheek oozing blood which was washed away instantly. His right arm moved awkwardly because of the thickness of the bandage beneath his tunic.
Joseph put the rest of the bread in his mouth. “Right,” he acknowledged.
“Sir…” Barshey began, then stopped.
“Yes?”
“General Northrup’s with him, Chaplain.” He said no more, but Joseph understood. There was no avoiding it now.
“I’ll do what I can,” Joseph promised. He knew Barshey would understand what he meant.
Hook was waiting for him in the command dugout. General Northrup was sitting on the other decent chair, which left an old ammunition box for Joseph to sit on, after he had saluted and been told to be at ease. It was hot and airless inside the confined space, but it was relatively dry.
Northrup looked like a man who had won a bitter victory, exhausted but justified.
“Captain Reavley,” Hook began miserably, “General Northrup informs me that there is considerable talk among the men that his son, Major Howard Northrup, did not die as a result of enemy fire.”
Northrup shifted his weight in the chair impatiently, but he did not yet interrupt.
Hook was aware of it. “If that is so, of course,” he went on, “then it is an extremely grave matter….”
Northrup could not contain himself any longer. “It is more than grave, Colonel Hook,” he cut across him. “It is murder, plain and simple. It means you have men who under ordinary law are guilty of the most terrible of all crimes, and under military law are also guilty of mutiny, and must face a firing squad.”
