Tidetown (34 page)

‘I am Colonel Baptiste,' he says with a salute and a click of the heels. ‘I will be your escort, Your Honour, and I will command the cavalry that guard us on our journey.'

Behind the coach is a troop of six horsemen in the uniform of the hussars, their steeds as still and disciplined as the riders themselves.

‘And our cargo?' asks the judge, pulling up the collar of his heavy gabardine coat to keep out the cold night air.

‘Safely packed in metal boxes in the luggage compartment,' replies the colonel.

‘Then we should be on our way,' replies the judge, climbing into the coach, followed by the young soldier, who signals the driver to proceed.

Two days earlier, and under strict instructions from the Chief Medical Officer, Brother Paul and Brother Mark arrived on their horse and cart with a sealed message from the Tidetown Council, to be delivered into the hands of Dr Knowles at the Provincial Medical Office. The monks were on their regular monthly trip to Bray to sell their honey and beer and to collect, in return, supplies of olive oil and other essentials to supplement their homegrown produce. The Tidetown councillors had agreed that no others could be better entrusted to such a crucial mission demanding integrity, secrecy and conscientiousness, and the monks received special dispensation to travel. The Brothers had fulfilled their duties and delivered the letter (unopened) to Dr Knowles and then proceeded to the market to conduct their business. Before dawn the next day, their own goods safely secured in the back of their cart, and their faithful horse fed and rested, they began their passage homewards.

The judge looks out of the window as his entourage moves forward, heads through the arched gateway and then down the slope that leads to the fork in the road. He knows this journey well, having taken it many times before, but never under such clandestine circumstances. The journey on this first night will take the long coastal road atop the ridge that protects the farms and hinterland from the ravages of the onshore winds. For the best part of the next day the road will wind through dairy country and orchards until it heads back to the coast and dips down to Separation Creek. There the party will overnight at the Half Way Inn, before heading inland across the many miles of wheat fields until they reach the crossroads that will point them to Tidetown and the end of their journey.

When the urgent request came from Tidetown for the precious vaccine Judge Omega had no hesitation in agreeing to join the expedition to ensure safe delivery of the cargo. Unbeknown to him, the cargo was only released once funds were deposited from the Tidetown coffers to those of the provincial governor.

The judge rubs the tiredness from his eyes and notices that the young man sitting opposite him seems slightly uncomfortable.

‘So, my new friend,' he says, with an engaging smile to put the officer at his ease, ‘this will be a long and tedious ride. I do hope you are a good conversationalist.'

‘I will do my utmost not to disappoint you, sir,' responds the colonel, ‘in this matter, as in all our endeavours.'

‘Well said, but I think before we put the world to rights, a little silence and rest to ease us into our journey will be in order.'

The judge sinks back into the velvet-covered seat, closes his eyes and allows the rhythmic motion, the sounds of harness and wheel, and the smell of fresh country air and horses, lull him into a peaceful sleep.

The colonel surveys his companion.
How at ease he seems in his slumber
, he thinks.
His fine features, the benign look upon his sleeping face betraying no hint of the hundreds of men and women he has passed judgement on, sent to the gallows, or worse still, to suffer airless dungeons and a lifetime locked away. How fine are his clothes, his greatcoat open to reveal an embroidered silk jacket and a ruffled undershirt, a silver chain and medallion about his neck. His long grey hair falls in curls about his face; his well-manicured beard, speckled with white, is waxed to a perfect V at his chin. In his lap his hands lie still and easy: three rings on each finger, of diamonds and blood-red rubies (some trace and hint at his profession)
. Then the soldier drifts into a dreamy sleep with images of himself as a child rolling down a grassy hill, his long-dead uncle, finger to his lips to remind him of the secret, beckoning him to the cellar for a sugar lump and a bath.

The young soldier wakes with a start. The coach is rocking from side to side.

‘A rude awakening.' The judge smiles, gripping the leather strap hanging down from the overhead luggage rack.

The soldier rubs the sleep from his eyes and puts his head out of the open window. The sun is bright and warm on his cheek, and he can see the driver has dismounted and is leading the horses across a ford.

‘No need to worry, sir,' shouts the driver, seeing the colonel. ‘There are loose stones under the water and I don't want a lame horse. Sorry for the bumps.'

The soldier waves him on and then settles back into the carriage. Looking over to the judge, he realises there is something about the finely waxed beard that stirs a memory: his uncle, the smell of cut grass and a tin bath in the cellar.

‘So, my fine fellow,' says the judge, offering him a flask of water, ‘tell me what brought you to soldiering.'

‘Thank you for the water,' says he, drinking from the intricately embossed vessel. ‘The military is in my blood. It was always to be my destiny.'

‘Ah, yes,' says the judge, ‘when I heard your name I recognised a connection. I knew your father. Indeed, also, I once saw your grandfather. Heading a victory parade. He was a real hero. I remember it well, even though I was very young at the time. The bunting, the band, the ceremony. They surely knew how to honour heroes back in those days.'

There's a sudden jolt and a neighing from the horses.

‘All grand,' shouts the driver from up front, ‘back on dry land.'

‘Excellent. So we shan't drown in the ford,' jokes the judge. ‘But, Colonel Baptiste, tell me what it means to you. This military life.'

The judge observes this handsome young man as he composes his words, the trace of a wrinkle appearing on his forehead, his bright blue eyes looking upwards, seeking out his thoughts. His cap is by his side, his fresh white gloves laid carefully on top as if presaging his very own funeral march. Young Henri Baptiste bears the same name as his grandfather, a cavalryman of old who once single-handedly, at full gallop, sabre slashing from side to side, broke through a line of Imperial Ottoman Guards and then led his troops to overthrow the citadel. As well as sharing the name, Henri has the same high cheekbones and thick curly blond locks as did his grandfather in his youth. He runs his fingers through his hair and leans forward.

‘You ask me what the military life means to me,' he begins. ‘Well, if I may be so bold, I would say that being of the military means duty. Defending our territories, protecting our people. Most of all it means standing up for what is right and good, defying evil. Yes, if it is to be one thing, then it must be combating evil.'

The older man nods his head. ‘Ah, evil. A topic close to the heart of a judge. Determining good from evil.'

Both are jolted forward as the coach judders to a halt. Henri's gloves slip from their place on top of his cap, the fingers spreading out as if wanting to make a point.

‘Breakfast,' shouts the driver.

Behind them they can hear the guards dismounting at the order of the subaltern.

‘Excuse me, sir,' says the colonel, picking up his gloves and placing his cap on his head, ‘but I must attend to my men.'

‘Of course,' says the judge, ‘and we all to our breakfast. There will be plenty of time to weigh up good and bad. A fine conversation in the offing.'

The horses, unharnessed from the coach, join the troopers' mounts in a field of lush fresh grass where they feed and rest from the rigours of the night-time ride. The cavalrymen gather together under the shade of a huge oak tree. A trestle table is unfolded and covered with platters of meats and cheese, fruit and water for the morning meal. A chair is provided for the judge, who sits among the men as if about to present a sermon (or a judgement). The young soldiers lie on rugs or lean against the thick trunk of the tree, relaxed and confident in the company of their young commanding officer who mingles freely among them.

‘Enjoy the food and rest,' says Baptiste, ‘we have a long ride this day and I will need a volunteer to forge on ahead and warn the mayor of our impending arrival.'

One young hussar steps forward.

‘It would be an honour, sir, to be given this task.'

‘Excellent,' replies his commander. ‘Prepare yourself. I will give you instructions and then you will leave immediately, with great haste, and to ride hard until you reach your destination.'

At which the young hussar hurries off to ready himself and his horse.

The colonel then collects some food and takes it to the two men stationed by the coach to protect the precious cargo. When he comes back he joins the judge and sits on a chair close by.

‘I was just thinking of what we were talking about,' says the colonel. ‘In the coach.'

‘Ah, yes,' says the judge, enjoying the sun on his face and the pleasant surroundings. ‘Good and evil.'

‘I was wondering, if I may be so bold, what a judge of your experience has come to understand of such a topic.'

The judge pulls on his long beard, silently phrasing his words, his summation.

‘You see, some would argue that evil means nothing in itself. It has substance only in relation to something else. Be that the violation of some moral code or set of laws.'

‘But are not some people just bad, just evil?' ponders the young man as he bites into a chicken leg.

On hearing this, the other soldiers stop their conversations, keen to listen.

‘A perfect question and a most natural one to pose,' continues the judge, ‘but let me explore.'

When he looks away from the colonel he realises he has an attentive audience. He smiles at the pleasure of youth eager to learn from their elder.

‘There are relatively few ways to do good. But there are countless ways to do evil, which can therefore have a much greater impact on our lives and in creating suffering. So, preventing evil is more important than promoting good in formulating moral rules and in actual conduct.'

He looks around at the gathered crowd of uniformed men.

‘This, we could argue, is at the heart of the noble art of soldiering. One I am sure you would all attest to. We could contend that evil is the dualistic opposite of good, the opposite of the prime virtues of compassion, moderation and humility. And then according to the guidance of reason, of two things which are good, we shall follow the greater good, and of two evils, follow the lesser. Some say evil is the dark side of the devil, something external to themselves. In this way a person can move aside from it, projecting their evil shadow onto others, as if it has nothing to do with them.'

One of the young soldiers raises his hand.

‘A question,' says the judge, relishing the meaty topic. ‘Please.'

‘So, sir,' asks the man, who enlisted after being outraged by the infamous massacre at the fort in Competteville, ‘are we all capable of evil?'

‘Excellent point. We might describe collective actions, like the slaughter of civilians in a war, as being evil. It may be that the intent is good, say a righteous war, but that certain actions or outcomes are determined as evil. Some religious folk argue that the concept of righteousness clearly divides the world into good and evil, thus explaining why wars have to be waged to protect the status of what is good. In our Bible, the book of Genesis defines evil as the “not good”. To some, evil is an unjustifiable reality, a vague notion of something that occurs in worldly experience that ought not to be.'

‘As a Christian,' says another man, speaking from the side of the group, ‘I believe we have to guard against evil; that it is our choice. We must decide, every day, in everything we do, to resist evil so that we can discover the nature of God. I was taught that one must choose not to be evil in order to return to God.'

‘Thank you, young sir, for joining the conversation,' replies the judge with a broad and welcoming smile. ‘I once met a wise man from the Far East who explained your point in terms of a parable from his own faith. In his belief, the world is a battleground between the god Ahura Mazda and the malignant spirit Angra Mainyu. The final resolution of the struggle between good and evil will occur on a day of judgement, in which all beings that have lived will be led across a river of molten metal, and those who are evil will be cast down forever. He told me that angels and saints are beings sent to help us achieve the path towards goodness.'

‘So who is to judge us?' asks the colonel, his mind swimming with images of the cut and thrust, the horror and immediacy of battle. ‘To tell us when our actions are evil?'