Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,26

assured his young friends that a pillar of the community would sell his wife and children, his own soul, to get money for some favourite lechery. It might be the gambling saloon, the stock exchange, a particular woman who could offer a special gratification not to be found elsewhere. Such men would sell the coats off their backs to gratify themselves with the sort of women whom they knew would take their money while regarding them with contempt.

I was a young man when I heard all this. The portrait of Rawdon Moran seemed to me hardly less evil than that of Satan. And if such a repellent form of Satan were at the bar of subalterns’ justice, perhaps I would not have cast my vote strictly according to the rules of evidence.

Of course, the midnight court found him guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman—absurdly underrating his crime! It also convicted him, in some form, for causing the poor young woman’s death. But then what was to be done with him? In one view, death itself would hardly be excessive. In another, it was doubtful whether they had grounds to do anything at all. In their enthusiasm to avenge Emmeline Putney-Wilson, they had not considered the dilemma in which they would find themselves.

And so Captain Canning and the four other members of the lamplit court had withdrawn to consider the verdict and sentence. It was late by then. Indeed, it was almost two o’clock in the morning. When they came back, Moran stood up even before they could command him to do so. Then Captain Canning looked him directly in the eyes. The so-called colonel was now found guilty of causing the death of the young woman by a means far crueller than many forms of murder.

Had he anything to say? He had not, except to deny the authority of these “boys,” as he chose to call them.

What of the sentence? He might deserve to die, but officers of a British regiment cannot murder such a man in his turn. As they faced each other, Captain Canning had the courage not to be daunted by the ferocity of Moran’s savage glare. Indeed, the captain continued to look the criminal in the eye and denounce him for conduct unbecoming a British officer and for moral homicide, whatever that might be. There was no sentence this court could pass which would be adequate to that crime—but pass a sentence it must.

It was therefore the judgment of his comrades that Rawdon Moran, sometime colonel of the Rajah of Kalore’s Militia and now captain in the 109th Albion Fusiliers, should be required to send his papers in forthwith and leave the regiment. Within that regiment, meanwhile, he was to be outlawed. Whatever retribution was inflicted upon him, no officer would contribute to the detection, detention, or punishment of the person who carried it out. So long as he remained within their reach, he should be a target for their vengeance.

It was an extraordinary sentence, vindictive but surely ineffectual. There was one thing more. Should Moran ever again make application to serve Her Majesty the Queen, in a military or civil capacity, any member present would be absolved from his oath of secrecy. The proceedings of the present tribunal would be communicated to the unit or body considering such application. From respect to the late Mrs. Putney-Wilson and Major Henry Putney-Wilson, those proceedings should not otherwise be made public. An oath of secrecy would presently be taken by the members of the court and the other officers in attendance. Unfortunately, with so many excitable young men present, these oaths were not worth the breath expended in uttering them.

This promised to be a comprehensive destruction of Rawdon Moran’s career. If ever there were an outcast, it would be he. But standing there at that moment, he looked round at what he seemed to regard as a litter of yapping puppies. His words were smoothly contemptuous and he almost spat the syllables in their smooth young faces

“In time, gentlemen, I may take my leave of this regiment. Meanwhile, I have no intention whatever of sending in my papers. Now that this pantomime is over, I shall be obliged for the return of my sword. If not, I shall report, as a matter of honour, that it has been stolen by a common thief among you here.”

Honour was soiled in the mouth of such a scoundrel as this! But the bluff of the subalterns’ court-martial had