Free Death on a Pale Horse by Donald Thomas

midnight?”
    For the next ten minutes or so, Captain Sellon described this arcane procedure—or midnight ritual, as I might call it. Let us say that the offender had been charged with conduct that might bring disgrace on the regiment if it went to a public hearing. One of the junior captains—Sellon, perhaps?—would be appointed president of the court. Four lieutenants would be its other members, rather than the nine more senior officers at an official hearing. Another captain would be prosecutor, and the defendant would be allowed to choose any other officer in the regiment to represent him.
    When the rest of the officers and the servants had retired for the night, three tables would be arranged round three sides of the mess room and draped in green baize. They would be set out with papers, carafes, and glasses, and legal reference works, just as if this were a properly constituted court. The wicks of the oil-lamps would be trimmed and those present would wear formal mess-jackets and medals, as at an official tribunal. Witnesses would sit outside in the ante-room until they were called, sworn, examined, and cross-examined. All those involved were automatically assumed to be under an oath of secrecy, as a matter of honour. Some honour, I thought!
    How could anyone not see the dangers of this drum-head ritual? I imagined myself being tried privately by such gadflies as Jock and Frank with Sellon as my judge! And, of course, there was no right of appeal to the world outside, let alone the Courts-Martial Appeals Court. But far from being a black mark against a regiment that settled its own problems in this sinister way, it seemed to be thought of more highly.
    Yet even if a defendant was convicted, how could a collection of subalterns have any legal redress against him? They could not cashier him, unless he chose to send in his papers and resign. They could not imprison him, let alone shoot him or hang him. They would, apparently, have kept him under escort so that he could not “do a bunk,” as Frank put it, until the trial was over. But what then?
    I tried to imagine what had happened in the 109th Foot to bring about such a midnight charade. The regiment had been in India for seven or eight years and would have returned to England by now but for the emergency in Afghanistan. It had been stationed near Lahore, living among the local community. It occupied British army barracks such as might have been found at home in York or Colchester or Canterbury.
    It seemed from my companions’ conversation that there had been a scandal, six or nine months ago, involving the regiment I was no longer to join. It had ended in this macabre ritual. But whatever the offence and whoever the culprit, what could the outcome of the so-called trial have been? Captain Sellon would bite his tongue out rather than tell me. All the same, he seemed anxious that I should understand the uses of such a secret court.
    â€œI don’t think you quite grasp the point, sir,” he said more patiently: “it is no substitute for the legal process and, for myself, I cannot condone it. But a man who misbehaves without committing a felony is often given the chance of putting things right privately. A chance of being dealt with quietly by his own kind. It may seem a privilege in its way. He avoids public disgrace with his reputation at issue.”
    â€œHe welcomes this secret trial?”
    â€œI will give you an example. Some years ago, a young lieutenant was mess treasurer in a regiment brigaded with my own. He was a decent enough fellow in most respects but not as well endowed with money as most of the others. To keep up appearances and pay his mess bills, he pilfered the funds of his comrades which were in his trust. In the circumstances and at his age, it was folly rather than villainy. It could not be ignored, but a formal public trial at brigade headquarters would have destroyed his reputation and career.”
    â€œIt