Chapter 38
Peter felt in his uniform pocket for the well-worn miniature Bible, his fingers brushing the softened leather as he prayed for comfort.
Since his visit with Mr. Smith many months ago, he had taken to carrying the book about with him as a source of strength.
And how desperately he needed that strength now.
He stepped into the vast, noisy hallway, the tension pulling at his shoulders and the ringing in his ears betraying his discomfort.
A wide variety of trimmings, epaulets, and badges designated the variety of officer stations possessed by the soldiers surrounding him.
Once, the sight of scarlet coatees, creamy white pantaloons, and tall Hessians brought Peter some sense of comfort, or at least a feeling of belonging that home had never given him.
But now the familiar view only made his stomach roil.
He could not rid his vision of those same coatees preying on women, crashing through doors, and slumping near-dead in piles across Basque Country.
After the great doors shut behind him and the crowd ceased its milling about, an officer, a major by the looks of it, rose to a pulpit at the front of the room.
Harsh, midday light streamed down from the window behind him.
But there was no Bible in his hand, no holy robes on his back.
This was not to be a sermon of hope and faith and healing, not in the least. And the great irony of the moment was not lost on Peter.
“Welcome to London! We are gladdened by the sight of all of you, particularly after the vigorous battles you all have endured in months past.”
A murmur of agreement rippled over the hall.
“First and foremost, we celebrate the deposition of Napoleon and the signed armistice and treaties. Your roles in these events are to be commended to the highest regard.”
Cheers rang throughout the hall. Men clapped shoulders and shook hands, and for a moment, there was a sense of unity, of encouragement, that Peter had not felt since Spain.
“Now, there is still a bit of tidying up to do before we move forward with our allies. There has been a great deal of publicity surrounding our little siege in San Sebastián, even to the point of making waves of gossip in the ballrooms of the Ton. We are aware that some of the ungrateful Spanish and Basque have published a number of so-called libels to stir up all sorts of rumors surrounding the incident. They claim we burned their city to the ground in an effort to unseat Wellington’s hold on their armies. ”
“Perhaps we should let them see how terribly they fare on their own,” a soldier near Peter called out, his gold epaulets badged with a star designating him a major.
“What do you say to that, eh, Harrison?” Peter clenched his fists.
Was this war simply about defeating Napoleon, no matter the costs to any of the countries they rampaged through?
“We are also displeased by the disorderly manner in which a few of you have conducted yourselves in the aftermath of the siege,” the officer—called Harrison, Peter supposed—continued.
Finally there would be some larger measure of discipline!
Peter rolled back his shoulders and scanned the group, watching for the guilt that would surely shadow their faces.
“There has been a great deal of talk that more civilians were attacked and killed than what we know to have actually occurred. Spain has tried to cast the blame on us, blame that should be rightfully placed on France’s shoulders.
Undoubtedly, these rumors have grown here in England as well, likely due to your sharing of your own perspectives, as skewed and influenced as they were by exhaustion.
Our army physicians can attest that when you are caught in the middle of a battle, particularly one as drawn-out and entirely straining as the Siege of San Sebastián, your mind can start to mislead you.
In your overactive imaginations, a few unfortunate casualties of errant bystanders can grow to mythic and horrific proportions, when they were, in fact, quite inevitable. ”
Peter’s gaze returned to the soldiers around him. There was some regret in their eyes. But theirs was an unfeeling passiveness, a resignation that dominated the room in a chilling way. Were they truly adopting these ridiculous excuses?
“And what if those few unfortunate casualties were greater in number than you imply?” Peter called, no longer able to stay silent. Anger heated his whole body, causing his uniform to feel restrictive. “Was Major Bailon’s death inevitable then?” Was Ana’s assault?
The officer singled Peter out with a searing gaze and a critical tilt of his chin.
“Captain Ashmore, if you had nearly as much wartime experience as Wellington, you would accept that the occurrence of a number of casualties is simply the nature of war. Allow me to bring to your remembrance his thoughts on the matter, having said that these unfortunate occurrences are a consequence of attending the necessity of storming a town.”
“An evil consequence,” Peter muttered. He had scoured newspapers for any sort of information, and by his best estimation, it had to have been nearly half of the city’s remaining population that was killed in the pillaging and plundering. It was no small casualty.
Harrison sniffed, looking down his nose in Peter’s direction.
“You would be wise to remember that San Sebastián was one battle among many, and that in enlisting, you accepted the possibility of witnessing death around you. This is our lot, and we are fortunate to have come out victorious, despite the cruelty of the French and the vain rebellions of the Spanish.”
He then turned to the larger crowd and continued.
“And to show our greatest appreciation to the regiments who helped us to break through to the French, we are preparing Battle Honors and a Military General Service Medal. Those of the 52nd will also receive a patch to commemorate a truly commendable example of conduct and exemplary service. We are certain this will help you all to recall the notable feats that were accomplished there, despite any small misfortunes.”
So they were, in a way, bribing their men into silence with accolades and honors.
Peter would never be able to pin such a badge on his uniform.
It would be like proudly displaying a murderer’s brand and expecting praise and renown for it.
He would not commemorate the foul misdeeds that occurred there, that had led to Ana’s attack and Major Bailon’s death.
Even now, the bloodred color of his uniform felt sickening.
“Many of you have had a period of rest following the variety of sieges and battles you have been involved in as fresh troops were sent in across the ocean. Thanks to Wellington’s fine work in invading Southern France earlier this year, we have all been able to enjoy a period of peace.
But now you are all being recalled to your duties. ”
Peter’s stomach was a heavy pit of pain.
Even with the foresight gifted to him by David and Captain Davies, the words were still a strike to his heart.
Could he really leave Ana when she needed him so desperately?
Would he sell his commission, as he had promised?
Already his mind started to whirl in a panic, wondering how he could possibly provide for the family that was now so entirely dependent upon him for their survival, and in more ways than one.
The army had provided him stability and the promise of a future. But now?
“It has been a difficult road, and some of you may question whether you would like to sell your commission. After all, Napoleon is in exile. But consider how abandoning your country would reflect on you, on your family. You will not be hailed a hero in the halls of London for such behavior.”
But selling a commission was not the same as desertion!
Once again, Peter’s gaze went to the soldiers who surrounded him.
Officers of some degree, they all were. Nearly all of them were gentlemen and understood the binding nature of honor and reputation.
And yet he could see the same doubt and trepidation that he felt shadow some of their faces and draw their shoulders downward.
He was not alone in questioning whether he could truly continue in the army after all they had witnessed.
The illusion of discipline and honor had long disappeared now.
But many of the men surrounding him would continue in their lots, whether motivated by duty to the Crown or the potential to fill their pockets.
But those whom Peter pitied most of all were the poor men who felt so haunted, so transformed by life at war, that they doubted if they would ever be able to reenter society, or any degree of normal living, again.
“There is still an important work to do for Crown and country. Our Duke of Wellington has accomplished a great deal, such as the Peace of Paris signing only months ago, of which you are well aware. But much unrest remains, particularly in France and Spain, even as Napoleon is exiled. You will be great tools in ensuring that this period of peace continues.”
Peter was all too familiar with the cost of wartime peace.
Peace was bloody. It was the ghost of mourning, screaming, suffering.
Peace was not quiet. At least it did not start that way.
Once, that peace had been enough for him.
It had been a sort of comfort compared to the wreckage of his family home.
But with Ana María, Peter had found an altogether different sense of peace.
A lasting peace, a healing peace. A peace that did not require killing.
How would he sacrifice that peace again?