The Wrong Man...

Few remember those times when a man’s word was his bond and even the rogue had honour enough when caught to own up to his deeds. No cowardly denials then; no weaselling whines from men wriggling like worms on a hook in their efforts to defray paying the time to fit their crime – but “Fair cop, governor! You have me bang to rights!”

In those days, it seemed an innate understanding of each human soul that we lived our lives according to the winds of fortune or the cast of kismet’s dice, and when the time came that folk were to answer for how they had lived, they owned up honestly and honourably to boldly accept dungeon or noose as the next, and perhaps final, chapter in their legend.

Reindheart Shallon, therefore, presented an enigma when the soldier was brought before his officer having been taken by the sergeants when they responded to cries of outrage in a tavern lined street that cut through the centre of the village. Shallon was soon pronounced guilty not only of taking part in a duel but of winning that duel. The corpse of Conrad Jessit bore as much testimony to his guilt as the smoking pistol in Shallon’s hand.

“Duelling being forbidden under martial rule, as you well knew”, his officer spumed, “I have no alternative but to sentence you to die! You shall this night, as is the soldier’s way, be accompanied by a man of the ranks who will assist you in the digging of your own grave. When the sun peeps over the horizon, you will be shot and covered over to lie in the good earth. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

“You will kill the wrong man”, Shallon had responded calmly.

“What!!”

It was unheard of. Shallon had been caught red handed. There were witnesses to all that had led up to the fatal shot: the argument that had ensued when Jessit had refused to apologise to the scullion wench at the Bearded Dwarf; the challenge; the stepping outside.

Right up to the moment when two shots rang out. While Jessit’s ball had gone wide and startled a crow from its night roost, Shallon’s had gone true and pieced his opponent through what many would say was his “dark heart”. Though under other circumstances it may well have been considered an honourable act in a lady’s defense, martial rule was what it was and to maintain order in the regiment, the officer’s sentence was the natural closing chapter of Shallon’s journey through this world, and any respect the onlookers may have nurtured for Shallon evaporated in his seeming denial of the facts.

“Take him away!” The officer had ordered in disgust.

That evening, after a supper of broiled mutton and rye bread washed down with watered ale, Shallon walked resignedly towards the little wood beyond the picket. By his side, carrying two spades, walked Private Cross, a young man of the regiment to whom it had fallen to show that while martial rule must be upheld, the regiment was a family that walked with its own even into the face of death.

“It’s sorry I am to know you won’t see beyond the dawn”, young Cross murmured as they made their way into the trees.

“I’m grateful for your company”, Shallon returned cheerfully.

In silence they hung their jackets, the green coat of a soldier and the grey flannel of the condemned man, upon a shrub as, rolling up their sleeves, they got to work with the spades. It was hard work, but once they’d broken the ground it became easier. At last, Cross again broke the silence.

“It seems a shame that your fate should bring you to such an end. Tomorrow, while you lie here in the dust, the rest of us will be chancing our fate as the regiment enters the battle. Who knows that I won’t be joining you in the grave before the day is out. The fickle fate of a soldier. Still, it seems wrong”.

“Be of good cheer”, Shallon said reassuringly. “At least one of us is assured a decent grave, while the other walks the tightrope between a chance at life and death on the battlefield. Few of us ever see the day when we may draw our army pensions”.

Somewhere among the trees an owl screeched as the moon appeared from behind a bank of clouds. The horses could be heard moving about in the corral and behind them, Shallon could see a faint glow as the sergeant puffed on his pipe during a night stroll. Occasionally, as the night wore on, sentries could be heard exchanging their terse “All’s well!” The two men dug on in companionable silence.

At last, the grave was deep enough for purpose and the two stand in sextons paused to survey their work.

“That’ll do”, Shallon said. “I’m happy to spend eternity in this fine bed we have dug”.

Cross looked up at him awkwardly.

“You seem composed to your fate”, he observed. “Did you mean what you said?”

“What about?”

“When you told the officer he was killing the wrong man. Was there some error in the accounts of the witnesses?”

Shallon hesitated before answering.

“No. They spoke truth”, he said at last. “Of course, I should have known better than to prompt a duel, despite Jessit’s vile treatment of that poor girl”.

There was an awkward silence.

“Your comment about the fine bed we have dug fair makes me sleepy”, Cross said at last.

“Well, there’s an hour before dawn. I’m content to enjoy a final nap in this corner if you will trust me not to slip away”.

“I so trust you”, Cross smiled, as the moon went behind a cloud.

“Here”, he joked, retrieving Shallon’s coat from the shrub and handing it to him. “Have your bedding”.

Wrapping themselves in their coats the two men huddled down in diagonally opposite corners of the grave and were soon sound asleep.

“Come on, lad. Sharpish!” The sergeant ordered. “We’ve a sorry duty to fulfil before breakfast and then it’ll be breaking of camp and let battle commence”.

Quietly, the sergeant and private Bunton, whose duty it would be to fire the killing round, headed past the picket towards the woods.

Fifteen minutes later, a shot rang out and a huddled figure was startled from sleep.

“Sorry to have startled you”, the sergeant said gruffly. “You had both nodded off and it seemed such a shame to wake the condemned man rather than let him die in his sleep not knowing the moment. Well, best fill in the grave and get back for breakfast before we break camp”.

With that, the sergeant and private Bunton headed back towards the camp.

Removing the soldier’s tunic in which he was wrapped and leaping up to lay his hand to the spade, the figure shook the last dregs of sleep from his mind as he lay the grey flannel coat atop the body of his companion of the previous evening and began to pile soil on top of his corpse.

“I’m glad you didn’t know the moment”, he thought solemnly.

It didn’t seem long before, his task complete, a lone figure was moving deeper into the woods.

“Poor bugger must have handed me the wrong coat in the dark”, Shallon thought as he strode towards an uncertain future. “Well, I may be a man of many faults - but at least I’ve never lied”.

© Rev. David Gray April 15th 2017