Chapter 10
Peter jogged up to where the old stone chapel sat nestled among thick oak trees.
Cool, winter sunlight sifted through the crisscrossing branches, tracing the building in highlights and shadows.
He had paid many visits to this chapel throughout his childhood, not many of which involved actually going inside it, much to his mother’s dismay.
It was a fact that he swore to change. He knew that Ana was a devout Catholic, or at least she was before the war.
He was not very familiar with that religion, but he would support his wife in practicing it.
Her murmured prayers had carried her through many dark days.
She would likely want her child baptized and christened and anything else that particular faith required.
Perhaps it was for the best that he was seeking to make amends with God and find forgiveness and peace, even if the Church of England was the only place he knew to do so.
The aching in his soul begged that such a thing could really be done.
He eased the chapel door open and started down the aisle.
The broad form of the vicar, Mr. Smith, rose from a pew and turned toward him.
He was a tall, muscle-bound man, a sight that Peter was sure wasn’t entirely common among men of the cloth.
A thick, gold-edged Bible was clasped carefully in his strong hands, its corners visibly well-worn.
“Why, Mr. Peter Ashmore. What a delight! Happy Christmas,” he said with a bow.
“Happy Christmas, Pastor,” Peter said.
“I heard of your return and am anxious to see you and meet your new wife. I apologize that Mrs. Smith and I have not yet paid you a visit.”
“Well, I have also failed to pay you a visit, both in your home and here.”
“Both can be remedied, beginning today.” Mr. Smith gestured to the open pew next to him, and they took their seats together. “How are you faring? I know that life at war can be quite difficult to endure, even after one has returned from the site of conflict.”
Mr. Smith always had a way of spearing the point on its head. Peter found his rehearsed, polite answers were quickly overtaken by brutal honesty.
“I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself into quite a lump of trouble.”
“Oh, surely no more trouble than all the mischief that you and Matthew used to manage,” Mr. Smith replied with a chuckle. “Why, I remember one time when you climbed onto the chapel roof just to escape the service your mother seemed so insistent upon.”
Peter laughed bitterly. “Times were simple then. If only I were speaking of something so lighthearted. I’m afraid that the issue that seems to haunt me is a great deal more serious than that.”
“And is that why you have come here? To rid yourself of the guilt that comes from a mistake?”
Peter’s cheeks burned at the thought. “No, not guilt in the way you might imagine. Only memories I wish I could rid myself of.” He was not the one who had done the great sin in San Sebastián, but it seemed he was still carrying the weight of it.
“Do you have anything you wish to discuss?”
“Yes . . . No?” Peter shook his head, his gaze darting around the room. He had come searching for answers, for peace, but it was difficult to divulge the pain he’d been carrying. “Clearly I’m not quite certain.”
“Would you care to share what happened?”
Peter stood from the wooden pew, rolling his shoulders.
He began to speak, slowly putting to words the nightmarish occurrences of San Sebastián, from the slow torture of the long months of siege, to the heart-stopping explosions that rocked the city, to the agony of finding Ana’s father, Major Bailon, killed by the men he had called friends.
He paced in the small stone aisle so firmly he was sure he would wear a path in it.
“It doesn’t matter that I was not the one to light the city aflame.
It matters even less that I laid not a hand on a woman or child.
I was in a position of leadership over the men who performed these horrors, and for that I can never forgive myself.
I’m afraid I’ll take this sin—that these things were permitted—to my grave. ”
Words gushed from him like the blood from a wound, and a physical, visceral pain accompanied it. He pounded a fist into his leg as he walked.
“The very worst of all is that I just today received a letter from one of our contacts in Northern Spain. There was a trial held in San Sebastián just recently, at the beginning of November, in an effort to bring to justice the soldiers who did so much harm there. They sent out notices and questionnaires to try to gather those who had been treated with such brutality. Only two women attended. Two! Even worse, Wellington denied all claims that were put up against him, against us, instead blaming it all on the French. It’s infuriating. ”
Peter buried his face in his hands as a rare tear of anguish escaped his eye.
“My, you are brave, to speak against the prized Wellington.”
“And now you understand why I feel so trapped by it all. Wellington has made many excellent decisions in this war and many others and has brought victories that bring us all hope. But this was too intimate a mistake. To turn around, raze San Sebastián, and then abandon those poor people after we camped for months in hope of freeing them and their city? It disgusts me.”
“This is quite a complicated issue, Mr. Ashmore. I wish to speak to you first as your vicar and then as your friend. I can’t promise I will know quite the right thing to share, as I don’t usually deal with matters on such a large scale . . .”
“Please, share your thoughts freely. I am past helping myself and appreciate any wisdom you’ll give me.”
“First, all the pain, both of the mind and body, that you have described is entirely real. There is a great amount of suffering that has been inflicted on the people of that city. But you are not responsible for carrying that suffering.” Mr. Smith paused for a moment, allowing those words to sink deeper.
“You need to allow Christ our Lord to carry it for them, to save them in this manner. Only He can do such a thing.”
Mr. Smith flipped deftly through the Bible in his hands, landing upon a well-worn page, and quoted from Isaiah chapter 53: “Surely, he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.”
He continued, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder and meeting him with an emotional gaze.
“Only the Lord can take them under the healing of his wings and provide them with safety in this life and peace in the life to come. You must allow Him to save them in this way by letting go of the guilt and pain that you carry for them.”
Peter sighed deeply as guilt began to painfully, slowly ebb from his body and tears began to leak more freely now from his eyes. He grunted and swiped at the unfamiliar sensation.
“But how do I let Him carry it all for me?” he whispered.
In recent years, the tragedies of wartime had weighed upon him.
He had taken to reciting prayers and meditating on the feelings of peace he believed the Lord had sent him in an effort to help.
On occasion it did seem to alleviate him, but as of late, it had not made as great a difference as he hoped.
“It would help to start learning from His word. To come to know the Lord, you need to know His word. You can read how He helped His children by working miracles and see how He can work miracles in your life and heart as well.”
Peter nodded. Surely Ana would have a Bible he could study, although it might be in Spanish. He vowed to search the library for an English copy he could keep at his bedside to add to his morning routine of reciting prayers.
“Now, speaking as your friend, please allow me to be frank.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Surely you cannot believe that you could have stopped an entire army by yourself. I do not doubt your abilities, Mr. Ashmore, but it seems that they were an uncontrollable, rampaging group of dangerous drunkards. You likely would have put yourself and others at risk by continuing to fight them, and then you wouldn’t have been able to save Miss Bailon, that is, Mrs. Ashmore.
Your life would be entirely different for that, as she is now your wife. ”
“I know, but I cannot help but wonder if I could have saved the others.”
“I seem to remember you telling me that you were not permitted to do so—that in doing so, you would have been cast out of the army.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“So, in escaping Spain with Ana, you were not selfish in choosing your own safety, as you have implied. Instead, you allowed the truth of these events to survive, in yourself and Ana. Surely they will live on in your family. Even if the army sins in hiding the desperate pain that was caused in San Sebastián, you have preserved the truth in preserving your family.”
“Still, it feels that someone should be responsible for what transpired.”
“You cannot be responsible for the joined armies of Britain and Portugal. You are only one man, albeit a great one.”
Peter bowed his head, the truth of the words slicing through his heart.
Still, he doubted whether God deemed him a great man.
He certainly didn’t view himself in such a way.
“I only wish there was a way I could testify against the guilty without risking Ana’s future.
She would be called to testify, her reputation and condition bared for all to see.
I cannot allow it. But continuing as if nothing ever occurred tortures me.
These two opposing, impossible circumstances hold me captive. ”
Mr. Smith nodded slowly and tapped a finger against the heavy Bible in his hands. “I cannot claim to understand the complexity of crimes against the law on the battlefront or the legal workings of war punishment. But I think you are wise in wanting to protect your wife. She is your future.”
He was right, Peter knew. Ana was his greatest priority.
But perhaps there was still a peaceful way for him to be a voice of truth.
Perhaps he could ascertain if the leadership’s feelings regarding the battle had changed in any way.
Matthew had a friend, Sir David Huntington, who had also been a captain in the army, although he had sold his commission and now played some sort of administrative role in London.
Perhaps he would have some unbiased information on the topic.
“The truth of the battle will always weigh upon me, I think, even when the pain and guilt have passed on,” Peter said. “I will accept, someday, that I could not have saved everyone. I could not have prevented the sacking by myself. But for now, it lives with me.”
“Truth tends to act in such a manner, although some people are adept at ignoring its pressure. But truth will always remain, weighing you to the things that are most important, like the gravity that keeps your feet grounded to the earth.”
There was great wisdom to that. How could Peter rid himself of the guilt he felt without forgetting what had happened?
The pain in his heart lessened after speaking with Mr. Smith, but he still felt he had a role to play.
Was there something yet he could do for the people of San Sebastián without harming them or Ana?
Peter thanked Mr. Smith and sent a silent plea to the heavens before leaving the chapel in long, swift strides. Maybe he could not travel back to Spain, but he could write to London and inquire about the trial. Perhaps then his soul would find a measure of rest.