“This man is hardly a squire,” Glass said. “He is my aide.”
“What’s that, now?”
They’d just arrived at the lumberyard as Glass stopped, wheeling around so quickly as to shock George into a standstill.
“Brigadier generals have aides, not squires. Address my men with respect, please.”
A soldier approached with a paper, which Glass signed without a second glance.
George apologized and nodded to the aide, then turned back to Glass.
“I’d like you to know I’ve decided to join that council of yours,” he said. “I would be more than happy to, actually. I will arrive early, and smile, and do your bidding. In return, might you allow me five minutes of your time—”
“The council has carried on in perfect concord without your presence.”
“So be it. Might I still have a moment? What I have to say will be of no imposition on your day. I could have been kinder to you perhaps, but I have not been cruel, either. Grant me this one favor. Just a few minutes. I am begging.”
Glass’s face seemed to condense itself to a single point, his eyes collecting themselves in deep contemplation and his nose scrunching up to meet them. He exhaled deeply and scooped half the papers from the arms of his aide and handed them to George, who nearly toppled over from the sudden weight.
“Make yourself useful and lighten my aide’s load,” Glass said, “and I’ll give you two minutes.”
“As fine a deal as any,” George said, gritting his teeth.
They entered the lumber depot and George was struck by the presiding aroma of the place. He knew the smell of walnut trees, of freshly dug dirt, black and bitter, but in the close quarters of the tentlike depot the elements were noxious enough to bring tears to his eyes. Beyond the depot, soldiers were occupied in loading onto wagons the rows and rows of planks cut to size.
“I’m listening,” Glass said.
George followed him into his makeshift office, a desk shadowed by several soldiers and littered with blueprints and telegrams, and began to explain what had happened to Landry; that not only the town but also his own neighbors had abandoned him. How, with nowhere else to turn, he needed to know there was at least one honorable man he could count on as an ally. One individual who would help him seek the justice that Landry deserved.
Glass had seated himself as George was talking, and was now jotting a note, his aide a resolute statue at his side. Only at the sight of the boy empty-handed did George realize he himself was still holding his half of the stack of papers. He put them down on the desk. Having concluded his monologue, he stood quietly, feeling incredibly small in the whirlwind of movement around him—a whole universe of activity he hadn’t even known existed before this afternoon.
“I’ve spoken with Mr. Webler already,” Glass said. “The issue will be delegated solely to Sheriff Hackstedde. He is more than capable of investigating this incident with impartiality.”
George was stunned. “But did you not hear a word I said? Hackstedde is a fool, and to seek the counsel of Webler, the father of the accused, is as foolish as anything the sheriff might manage himself. This is dereliction of duty through and through.”
This, more than any previous statement, captured Glass’s attention. He folded his hands upon the table and delivered George a look so stern that he wanted to hide himself behind the stack of papers he’d just laid down.
“My duty?” Glass said, incredulous. “I doubt you have the faintest clue what my duty is. The very definition of the word is beyond you, as it is for so many men who come from so much and need so little from those around them. Allow me to explain it clearly so as to remove any confusion. My duty is to my country. In this case, my superiors have seen fit to assign that duty to a single task of little esteem but great importance, which is operating a lumberyard in a sorry country town filled with individuals who despise me. This duty also requires me to keep the peace amongst the very people who wish to see me, and all these soldiers surrounding me, gone from their home. That is my lot. And I have done it, and will continue to do it, until I am relieved of doing so.”
“I did not wish to offend you—”
“Which is the problem. Your selfishness knows no bounds. You don’t see past your own person. God forbid you consider that those folks waiting in line all morning outside that old schoolhouse might take priority over your own needs.”
“I have presented my case poorly,” George said, backtracking however far he could. “I am not perfect—that I will grant you with zero reservation. But that does not change the fact that there is a dead man, a man who was good to all he met, who deserves better than to have his murder treated as a matter of no consequence. Quite frankly I’m flabbergasted you’ve fallen under Webler’s spell. For someone so attuned to the wiles of men seeking favors, you have aligned yourself with the worst of them.”