‘Call your people,’ said Captain Simpson. With a rough and impatient hand he wiped away the tears from his cheeks; but it was the gesture of an iron man, and his eyes burned terribly as he looked at Gotwela.
‘My people are here,’ answered Gotwela indifferently.
‘Call all your people,’ said Simpson. His voice was shaking, but no one who heard it could have thought it the shaking of weakness. ‘There are many in the forest nearby–’ he looked beyond them at the ring of trees, where here and there a face or a figure was to be seen, peering briefly from the shadows. ‘Call them.’
‘How shall I call them?’ asked Gotwela, on a surly note of protest.
‘We are your prisoners of war,’ said Zuva, chiming in. His voice was higher, like a woman far gone in fear. ‘You cannot force us–’
Simpson moved forward swiftly. The gun in his hand was trembling, but, once more, no one would have mistaken it for the trembling of a weak man. With the blunt muzzle of his revolver he prised open Gotwela’s mouth, and forced the gun within. ‘Call your people,’ he said again, thickly, ‘while you still have a tongue to call with.’
He withdrew the gun muzzle, wet and cloudy, and Gotwela swallowed. But he raised his voice: ‘Come out,’ he said, speaking towards the margin of the forest. ‘Draw near.’
‘Louder,’ said Simpson.
‘Come out!’ repeated Gotwela. ‘Draw near me!’
‘Louder,’ said Simpson.
‘COME OUT!’ said Gotwela, for the third time. He turned his head, shouting at the blank forest. ‘DRAW NEAR!’
He repeated it many times, an eerie sound of command against the wall of the trees; and presently men and women began to flock fearfully out of the forest, closing their ranks with the prisoners who were already there. Insistently Simpson prodded Gotwela in the throat with the revolver, making him repeat the call again and again; David stared steadfastly at the cross; Crump looked down at his feet. This was all wrong, thought Crump, the police captain; but after all Simpson was in command … He himself had been very fond of the Ronalds … Father Schwemmer had been an old friend … It was all wrong, the things that were happening and the thing that was going to happen, but he could not bring himself to interfere, neither as a policeman nor as a man …
Presently the whole clearing was filled with people, edging forwards, overrunning and obliterating the burnt marks of the fish, surrounding the bodies and the crosses. There must have been two thousand of them, staring, trembling, not uttering a sound. Captain Simpson, who had lost none of his sweating exaltation of rage, looked towards Crump.
‘Translate for me,’ he commanded. And then, turning to the main body of the people: ‘Look now at what you have done!’
Crump raised his voice, and repeated the words in the U-Maula tongue. Every eye was focused obediently and fearfully on the bodies.
‘It is the fault of all of you,’ continued Simpson. David watched him, amazed; it was hard to identify this grim and avenging man with the hearty, gin-sipping naval aide he had known for the last few months … ‘You are vultures … You are all guilty … But the men most guilty are these two men.’
There was utter silence as Crump repeated the words.
‘All those who are guilty will be tried,’ said Simpson. ‘But these two, the leaders–’ he gestured with his revolver, ‘–will never be tried. The law is too slow for criminals such as these.’
All eyes were upon him now.
‘You!’ shouted Simpson suddenly, pointing at the nearest group of men. ‘Come here!’
Five or six men stepped forward, slowly and unwillingly.
‘Cover them up,’ said Simpson, in the same loud voice, pointing at Tom and Cynthia Ronald. And as the men hesitated, not knowing how to obey, Simpson said ‘God damn you! … Take off your blankets … Cover these two…’
The bodies were quickly covered.
‘Now take him down,’ said Simpson, pointing at the torn body of Father Schwemmer.
It took some time to do this. The Descent from the Cross, thought David, viewing with horror the lolling corpse as it was lowered slowly from its cruel fastenings. Like Crump, he knew what was going to happen, as soon as this was all done, but he had not the smallest wish to arrest it.
The body of Father Schwemmer presently rested on the ground, covered by a blanket. Now the three shapes were ranged in the sunlight, decently hidden, restoring some order to the fearful scene. The air was the cleaner for it, but not yet clean enough.
In the silence, in the middle of the huge crowd, the click of Simpson’s revolver was the loudest sound ever heard in the forest.
Simpson turned sideways to Crump. ‘You can take a walk, if you like,’ he said. It was as if he were talking in his sleep. ‘This is my show … If you hear a shot, it just means that my gun is in working order.’
Crump looked at him levelly, preserving his own discipline, abdicating the rest. ‘I’m staying,’ he said. ‘You may be sorry afterwards … But you know what you’re doing …’
‘I shall never be sorry,’ said Simpson, ‘as long as I live. David?’
‘I’m staying,’ said David.
Simpson turned again. In the deadly silence, against the beating of a thousand hearts, he walked towards Gotwela and Zuva. ‘You are murderers,’ he said. ‘Kneel down.’
Gotwela, sullen and resigned, obeyed without seeming to hear. Zuva also fell on his knees, but his was the attitude of agonized prayer, and as he knelt he twisted his body round towards Simpson, and screamed at him: ‘You can’t do this … It is contrary to all law … I demand a fair trial…’
‘A fair trial would condemn you to death, and you would be hanged,’ said Simpson, in the same sleepwalking voice. ‘Perhaps six months from now … But you are not going to live so long. Turn round. Look up. Look at the cross.’
Gotwela’s head was sunk on his chest, and his huge body was slack. By his side, Zuva still screamed and clasped his hands, and a babble of words poured from his lips. ‘Democratic rights,’ he mouthed, as if reciting a charm. ‘Prisoners of war … The Geneva Convention …’
‘Translate,’ said Simpson again, looking up at the sky. And then, to those watching in terror: ‘These two men, who were your leaders, are murderers … Remember this moment, because it is a moment of swift justice … You all know that they have killed a priest–’ he pointed down at the blanketed corpses, ‘–and the District Officer, and his wife … Do any of you think that I will let them live?’
Crump’s voice as he translated was less taut, less filled with rage, but firm as a rock none the less.
‘They are hereby condemned to death,’ said Simpson. ‘They are hereby executed.’ His head came down, the revolver came up. Crump was still translating as the two shots rang out.