Free Honor's Kingdom by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters

Yes. Screaming I was. Fair shrieking. There was a madness brewing up in me in those days, though one of a different sort. But let that bide. Suffice to say I screamed as a sergeant must not do. Not at an officer. Not even at the lowest soldier, if he is a good sergeant. And Culpeper ignored me. So I had my boys rank up and prepare to fire. I would have given the order, too. But the devil paused just in time. We faced each other then, with his tribesmen loyal as could be and ready with cold steel—for they’re loyal to the death to the officer who has won them over, no matter what he does to man or beast. Ready to rush upon us, they were, whether we had loaded rifles or no.”
    I must have been staring at the basement walls, but, really, I was looking through time. Backward through five years of flight from India and its demons. “He backed down. Purple in the face, he was, and I do not exaggerate. Purple. He swore I would be court-martialed and hanged, for interfering with an officer at his duties.” I smiled, as we do when we ache at our own folly. “And he was nearly right, though he had nothing to do with the charges when finally they come round. No, he and Hodson’s Horse rode on. I hear they did good service. But cruelly done, it was. And best forgotten.”
    “That one don’t sound like a British officer to me,” Mr. Archibald said, although his voice lacked its earlier confidence.
    Inspector Wilkie ignored him. “And you suspect that this . . .” He pointed at the hand, which seemed even smaller now. “. . . this crime . . . is the work of a Lieutenant Culpeper you crossed in India?”
    “That would be impossible,” I said. “I heard he was cut to ribbons not long after.”
    TWAS HIGH MORNING and burning as we rode across London toward the fish market. Ahead, we saw the false storm clouds sent skyward by the manufactory chimneys down the river. Inspector
    Wilkie displayed admirable patience, I must give him that, for he had agreed to set aside the unspeakable business of the child’s hand until I might give it more thought and his underlings could begin a proper investigation. Meanwhile, he took it upon himself to accompany me to an interview with the fishmonger who had found the Reverend Mr. Campbell mixed in among his wares, even though other policemen minded the law in the City Mile and Billingsgate lay outside of his purview. An ever-helpful man the inspector was.
    We did not go immediately, for the duties of a policeman are many and varied. First Inspector Wilkie directed our rig to Jermyn Street where a dead man from the Argentine lay in his rooms. Reputed to be a maker of bombs, he had poisoned himself for love. Only after observing the anarchist’s corpse could the inspector accommodate my desires.
    Saturday or not, the density of carriages upon the streets was such that we had to turn down through Haymarket, where the Theatre Royal advertised Our American Cousin. Now, I will tell you: At times I wish the theatre were not immoral, for I will admit to you, as finally I did to Mick Tyrone, that I would like to see the works of Mr. Shakespeare played upon the stage. But that is how our fall from Grace begins, see. With our succumbing to desires that seem most innocent. And then it is like a rout in the wake of a battle, where tragedy compounds with everystep. We must be firm in the first instance, putting up a sound and constant defense against sin and evil. For once the barricade is pierced, late efforts go awry. So I content myself with reading Mr. Shakespeare, who is edifying upon the page, and true.
    Evading morning drill, a Guards officer stepped into the street with a lady on his arm, confident the world would give him way. And we did.
    Past St. Martin’s church we went and along the solvent jollity of the Strand. The narrowness of the archway at Temple Bar delayed the succession of wagons and carriages, and an obstinate omnibus held us back for a time. Then we come free again and rolled down