Page 96 of The Soldier
“There was a mare,” he said, his voice dropping to an ominously dispassionate softness. “An elegant little black mare who’d made it as far as a copse of trees. Horses will do that—ask any seasoned officer, and he’ll tell you of a horse that suffered a mortal injury but carried the rider to safety before succumbing. Her side had sustained damage from a bayonet; there was blood… everywhere, but still she struggled to get up. She was badly weakened, but she kept up that pathetic tossing of the head, and flailing, all without making a sound. Her rider was nowhere about, and I hoped for her sake he’d survived. She knew, Emmie…”
He stopped speaking again, and Emmie saw his cheeks were wet though there was no hint of tears in his voice.
“She knew I was there to end her suffering and stopped struggling long enough so I could cut her throat and wait with her until she was dead. I said the usual, stupid, useless prayer, and moved on with my unit. We hadn’t gone far, though, when a party of scavengers worked their way back to those trees. I don’t know why I even paid attention, but they were so jolly, thanking the emperor for filling so many stew pots, and so on… I should not have looked, should not have let myself look, but when I did… They were butchering the little mare where she fell. She was dead… I knew she was dead… But I thought, what if I hadn’t gotten there a few minutes earlier… and I lost… I disgraced my command.”
Emmie gripped both his hands in hers and bowed her head. Tears began to course down her own cheeks.
“I moved too quickly for my men to stop me,” St. Just went on, bitterness creeping into his tone. “I had several knives on me, as the men had offered me theirs when the guns were useless, and I hurled them, one, two, three, at the fat, jolly man making such a party over that mare’s corpse. I wish I’d had better aim.”
“You didn’t hit him?” Emmie asked, relieved for him but furious anyway.
“He slipped,” St. Just said simply. “He slipped at the last moment on the bloody,bloodymud. The mare’s spilled blood saved him, quite literally.”
“I am more troubled by his survival than your lapse of protocol,” Emmie said fiercely. Did he think she would find him unfit to raise Winnie overthis?
“The man came up yelling, threatening to have me court-martialed for trying to feed his family; and had an old gunnery sergeant not threatened to relieve me of command, I would have been facing murder charges.”
“But you listened to your sergeant,” Emmie said, noting St. Just’s knuckles were still white.
“I did, and to his punishing right cross. I was all but dragged off the field, though all of the men present refused to discuss the incident with my commander.”
“So what became of you?” Emmie asked, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.
“The general on whose desk this mess landed knew me from Spain and gave me two choices: I could sell my commission and go home a hero, or I could try to fight the charges, but there were witnesses to condemn me for throwing not just one but three knives at civilians… to protect what? The honor of a dead horse? That would embarrass not just my command but also my family and even the memory of my brother. I sold out and started drinking, but I did something for myself first.”
“What did you do, Devlin?” Emmie was using both thumbs on his hands, trying to communicate her acceptance and sympathy and approval forwhateverhe’d done.
“I buried the horse,” he said, dipping his chin so Emmie could not see his face. “I just had to, and when the general found that out, he told me I’d be a fool not to go home, as my career was over whether or not there was a court-martial, but Emmie…”
“I’m here,” she said around the lump in her throat.
“I sometimes think burying that mare was the only decent thing I did in my entire military career. That all of it was just so much brutality and mayhem and…”
Emmie moved around the table in one swift lunge and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She pressed his head to her chest and held on tight until she felt his arms steal around her waist, embracing her with the same desperation. His grip was that of a drowning man—a dying man—and she would not let him go.
She held him until her back ached and her balance began to weave, then held him some more. She held him as heat and tears and awful fits of tension seized him then eased, only to seize him again. He shuddered and clung and held on, until finally, he pulled her down into his lap and held her yet more.
Emmie’s heart broke for him, for the hurt and self-doubt and sheer, miserable loneliness his service to the crown had cost him. It had cost him while he served, and it cost him every day since.
“You’ve paid enough,” she said, her voice husky with her own tears. “Devlin St. Just, you were right to throw those knives and you were right to bury that mare and you were right to come home. You were right and you are not crazy and damn them all. Just damn them to bloody hell.”
“Emmie, no,” he said when she’d finished her rant. “I was not right. I was not even rational, I was needlessly, murderously violent over nothing. I am barely sane, a killer, and when the damned rain starts, all I can think to do is drink. You cannot forgive me such things; you cannot entrust Bronwyn to such as a one as I. You shouldn’t trust me with your mule, for God’s sake.”
“Hush.” Emmie put a hand over his mouth. “Just hush. You had a bad moment; you’ve had others. You are human, St. Just. The things you’ve endured have threatened that humanity, but yet you do care for Winnie, you are kind to her, you dote on your horses and are much loved by your family. Do not bury yourself with that poor horse. Do not.”
“Emmie,” he said, his tone tired but implacable. “I’ve killed more men than I can count. I was respected for that, for my brutality in hand-to-hand fighting. I was determined to do what it took to prevail in every battle, and even if we retreated or outright got trounced, I took out as many of the enemy as I could—permanently.”
“And did you enjoy killing others?” Emmie asked, pulling back to study his eyes.
“Of course not.”
“Not even a little?” she pressed. “Not the respect it gained you, not the sense of victory?”
“No,” he said harshly. “The worse I became, the more my men wanted to stay near me in the fighting, and then I felt I had to fight to protect them, too.”
“Devlin.” Emmie waited until he met her eyes. “I thought when I met you and listened to you snapping out orders and pronouncements even while you appropriated the manners of a gentleman, that I was dealing with a bone fide barbarian.”
“I am…” he began, nodding, but Emmie cut him off.
