William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

ground. It was still hot, the air motionless. Monk could hear the flies buzzing and smell the dust, cordite and blood.
    Half an hour later they found Breeland dazed, holding one arm crookedly as if his shoulder were dislocated, still unwilling or unable to believe the battle was over and his men had fled. He was seeking to help the wounded, and bewildered to know how. He was surrounded by Confederate troops but he did not seem to realize it. Most of them simply passed him; perhaps they mistook him for a field surgeon. He no longer carried a gun and offered them no threat.
    Trace stood squarely, the pistol in his hand pointing at Breeland’s chest.
    “Lyman!” Merrit lunged forward. Hester had her by the hand and the impetus of her movement almost overbalanced them both, dragging Merrit to her knees.
    “Get up!” Trace said bitterly. “He’ll be all right.” He gestured to the man on the ground, then jerked his hand at Hester. “She’ll stop the bleeding. Then you’re coming with us.”
    “Trace?” Breeland seemed startled to see him. He had not yet looked at Merrit.
    Trace’s voice was pitched sharp, on the edge of losing control, his face smeared with dust and blood, rivulets of sweat running down his cheeks.
    “Did you think I would just let you go?” he demanded. “After all that … did you think any of us would let you walk away? Is that your great cause?” He sounded on the edge of hysteria and the gun in his hand was shaking. For a terrible moment Monk was afraid he was going to shoot Breeland right there.
    Breeland was nonplussed. He stared at the gun in Trace’s hand, then up at his face.
    “What are you talking about?” he asked.
    Merrit swung around to Hester, defiance in every angle of her body, and justification.
    Monk kept his gun level, pointing at Breeland. “Get up,” he ordered. “Now! Let Hester tend to the soldier. Now!”
    Slowly Breeland obeyed, automatically cradling his injured arm. He did not reach for any weapon himself. He still appeared totally confused. Monk was not sure if it was their questions, or more probably that for him the inconceivable had happened: the Union had lost the battle; but worse, far worse, they had panicked and run away. That was not within his belief of the possible. Men of the great cause could not do that.
    “We found Daniel Alberton’s body, and those of the guards,” Monk said between his clenched teeth, remembering what he had seen, even though it was dwarfed by the slaughter around him now. Still there was a moral gulf between war and murder, even if there was no physical one. Different kinds of men committed one from those who were caught up in the other, even if the death was much the same.
    Breeland frowned at them, and for the first time he looked at Merrit, and a rush of shame added to the confusion.
    “Papa was murdered,” she said with difficulty, forcing the words out. She was too drained of emotion to weep. “They think you did it, because they found your watch in the warehouse yard. I told them you didn’t, but they don’t believe me.”
    Breeland was incredulous. He looked at each of them in turn as if expecting at least one to deny it. No one spoke; no eye wavered.
    “You came for that?” His voice cracked into a squeak. “You came all the way over here …” He flung his good arm out. “To this! Because you think I murdered Alberton?”
    “What did you expect us to do?” Trace said bitterly. “Just count it as the fortune of war and forget about it?” He rubbed the back of his hand across his face, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. “Three men are dead, not to mention six thousand guns stolen. Your precious Union might justify that for you … it doesn’t to anyone else.”
    Breeland shook his head. “I didn’t kill Alberton! I bought the guns fairly and paid for them.”
    Inexplicably, completely unreasonably, it was not the lie that infuriated Monk; it was the fact that Breeland had never once touched Merrit or offered her any compassion. Her father was dead, and he was concerned only that they believed he was guilty of it.
    “We’re going back to England,” he stated. “You are coming with us, to stand trial.”
    “I can’t! I’m needed here!” Breeland was angry, as if they were being stupid.
    “You can come back with us to England to trial, or I can execute you here and now,” Trace said with a level, almost flat voice. “And we’ll take Merrit to stand trial alone. She can tell