“It was an accident. I’ll testify on your behalf. Look, it’s not the end---”
“No! Not for you and me. We’re the lucky ones. We’re left to go on fighting.” Michael brought his gaze back to earth, knowing his words would never reach the younger man. But still they must be spoken.
“Can’t you see, Purceville? When men hold in their hands the fate of nations, there’s no room for whim, or politics. Don’t you see that every time your King rolls angrily in his bed, a thousand lives are swept away?
“You! You took away our land, our dignity, and gave us nothing in return but the butt of your muskets. Do you wonder that it came to war? Then for years those of us with the courage to resist you were called ‘traitors’, and hunted down like dogs. Now you say we are prisoners of war, and all we have to do is walk away.” He paused, overwhelmed by the thought.
“Can a man walk away from his past? Can the cold stones of the grave lose their shadow, and rotted flesh grow whole again to walk with the living? God damn you! We stand atop a pile of bodies four miles deep, over which you would hold a pretty picnic. And ten times ten thousand left to grieve.
“Dear God, I cannot look at you, for the very sight is bile in my throat. When ignorance leads the blind, how black shall the blindness be?”
He walked out of the room, with all feeling gone from his soul.
Twenty-Seven
The widow Scott opened her eyes in the chill hour of dawn. Indirect sunlight filtered through the high window, silhouetting the statued form of her niece, who stood in silence before it. At her side the girl held something metal that gleamed dully. Her eyes looked out unseeing.
“Mary? What’s that in your hand?”