An orderly opened the door, and the prisoner was brought in between two armed guards. He saluted the Court, and then stood at attention. The guards fell back. Two or three witnesses sat on a bench within the door.
The colonel did not once look at Private Hey, and the charge was read. The principal witness lay in hospital, but sufficient evidence of the fact of the assault would be produced, and the president desired the prisoner to plead. The plea was scarcely audible, but it was understood to be “Not guilty,” and the first witness was called.
The cherub knew not in what queer way it hurt him that his colonel refused to look at him. He didn’t much care what happened, but he would have liked the colonel to think well of him. A witness was telling how the prisoner had reeled, spoken thickly, offered his bayonet, and finally flung the man down the steps of the turret of the South Bar. Would the witness consider the prisoner to have been drunk? the Court asked, and the witness replied that he should. The steps were old and worn; might not the man have slipped? the Court suggested, and the witness reminded the Court that the prisoner had staggered and offered his bayonet. Had the injured man spoken to the prisoner? The witness thought not; he had seemed to be on the point of speaking, but the prisoner had cut him short, exclaiming: “I don’t want to talk to dead-off’s—like you!”
Asked if he had anything to say, the prisoner shook his head. “I wasn’t drunk, sir,” he said.
Other witnesses were called; the case went drowsily forward, and the major yawned. The colonel was whispering to the doctor again, and then for the first time he looked at the prisoner.
“Do you know this Peterson?”
“I worked for him when I was a civilian, sir,” the prisoner answered.
“Have you any grudge against him?”
“I didn’t want to talk to him, sir.”
“But suppose he should speak to you again?”