Page 100 of Miss Dignified
“I could never quite figure out how to get away with it,” Powell said, “but if ever I held a man in low regard, it was he.”
“I didn’t want to kill anybody,” Marcus said, hating the pleading note in his voice. “All I wanted was to take good care of Mama and Lydia, to know which tenant needed the loan of a team of bullocks and which neighbor needed a hand with his drainage. All I have ever wanted, Powell, is to do the right thing. I wanted to be a conscientious steward, a friend to mankind, but that’s not enough, is it?”
Marcus was sniffling now, always a problem with the spring air. Even gave a man the sniffles in London.
Powell passed him a handkerchief. “Dunacre threatened one of the men, didn’t he? When he really wanted to upset me, he’d go after the men. The older fellows, the ones too battered to hold up to the long marches. He preyed on the weak and exploited their vulnerabilities to prey on the strong.”
“I wasn’t strong, Powell. I was never strong.”
“I think you were. I think you were, in your way, far stronger than any of us, and certainly Dunacre or I, realized.”
Well, Powell was confused at best, a comforting thought, to know even the wily captain could become muddled.
“Waterloo was a mess,” Marcus said. “Nobody had any maps, and in low country, you can’t precisely ride up to the hilltop and spot the village spire, then reckon your bearings from that. Messengers got lost or shot, generals fell, and we stumbled around, not knowing whose cannon we heard. You were there.”
“I was there, but my cousins got me an assignment out of Dunacre’s line of fire. You were not so lucky.”
“I was finally to see action, Powell. Real action. My unit engaged the enemy early and got the worst of it. No reinforcements, not enough cannon, mud to our knees, the cavalry never where it was needed at the time it was needed. You know how it went.”
Marcus hated to think about that day, but it was never far from his awareness, and a constant theme in his nightmares. This poky little room and the lumpy cot were miles away from any battlefield and not nearly far enough. Perhaps that was half the allure of Philadelphia—it was half a world away from Waterloo.
“How did the rest of the battle go for you and your men?” Powell asked.
“We suffered heavy casualties and told ourselves the usual lies—the French had suffered worse, by God, and we would show them, et cetera and so forth. The typical rot soldiers rely on to keep morale up. William Brook had been sent to relay our situation up the line, and he came back with the news that we were to fall back to the nearest woods. We were to rest and be held in reserve to provide reinforcements where needed later in the day.”
“Dunacre wasn’t having any of that?”
“He raised his pistol and was about to shoot Brook in the face, because Brook refused to recall any orders other than those he’d had from Wellington’s very staff. Brook refused twice. Dunacre sat on his white charger and cocked his damned pistol, one foot from Brook’s face. Then our glorious commander started yelling about insubordination and disobeying a direct order. He’d ordered Brook to tell lies, Powell, deadly, damnable lies. So I…”
Powell had to be the most patient man ever to sit on a worn cot and listen to a sad, old tale.
“Tell me the rest of it, Tremont.”
“At that moment,” Marcus said softly, “I had no more philosophy in me. I was on my horse a half-dozen yards away, and I put a ball through Dunacre’s heart. I ordered the men to the woods. We took our fallen commander’s remains with us, and the men later decided Dunacre had suffered a hero’s death on the battlefield. French sniper was the official word. Was I a coward, Powell, to let the men make that choice for me?”
If anybody could answer that question, the conscience of the regiment could.
“Dunacrewas the enemy, Tremont. The problem was never you or me, it was Dunacre. He was prepared to murder a loyal soldier so he could order more loyal soldiers to fling themselves at the enemy for the sake of his own glory. That is a great and unequivocal evil, to waste lives for the sake of vanity and personal gain.”
A great and unequivocal evil. That sounded like something Aurelius would have said—both grand and accurate.
“Instead,” Powell went on, “you put your own welfare aside and saved Brook’s life, and probably the lives of most of the men still standing. Had it been a Frenchman or another enlisted man waving a pistol in Brook’s face, you would not have hesitated to fire. A lieutenant colonel’s uniform alone—a uniform Dunacrebought—should never have put him above the reach of justice.”
Interesting word—justice. Powell had doubtless chosen that term on purpose. “Dunacre would have killed Brook in cold blood for conveying orders honestly. I believe that, Powell. I know it.”
Marcus used Powell’s handkerchief to blot his eyes. The linen smelled good, of sunny climes and spicy breezes. Of lives far from war and murder and despair.
“Every witness to the moment agrees with you,” Powell said. “I know those men, Tremont. I’ve fed them, clothed them, given them places to sleep, found them jobs, sent some of them to Wales to work my land. Not a one of them has spoken a word against you, nor can I speak a word against you. In this matter, I am content to trust the judgment of the soldiers who saw the whole situation firsthand. They are judge and jury, and they have chosen to acquit you of wrongdoing. You prevented the greater harm by taking Dunacre’s life.”
Marcus folded up the handkerchief, damp now, and considered Powell’s words. Marcus had of course tried that reasoning on for himself many times—saving many lives by taking one had to be the superior moral choice, right?
Except that a military court might not see it like that. Military judges were not known for a considered grasp of moral philosophy.
“You don’t feel duty-bound to alert Horse Guards to my perfidy?” Marcus asked.
“I feel duty-bound to get you away from this place, find your sister, and see what she wants us to do about Wesley.”
“I’m not shooting him,” Marcus said. “I want to, but I haven’t touched a gun since Waterloo and probably won’t ever fire one again. He’s family, Powell.”
