Who was I to decide the fate of this man? The constable had already looked closely at the passage, hadn’t he? And decided that it was empty?

But this deserter would eventually be found. And shot. The Army was relentless in its determination. It was just a matter of time.

And so I sat there, unable to bring myself to step off the omnibus and speak up. Instead I listened as the hue and cry swirled up one side of the street and then down the other. The shouts of constables, their whistles shrill in the night, were loud at first, then fading as the hunt turned back the way we’d just come.

It was late when the same constable, out of breath now, came to inform the driver that we could go on our way. The driver must have asked the question on all our minds, for I saw the policeman shake his head. And then we were moving, lumbering through the darkness as we continued on our route.

The man behind me said, “I don’t envy those constables. It’s not a fit night for man nor beast to be out there.”

And a woman behind him asked anxiously, “Will he be given a fair trial, when he’s caught? The deserter?”

“He’ll be found guilty, right enough,” an elderly laborer answered her. “It’s not the Army’s way to be lenient. Mark my words.”

And from the last seat, a soldier in the uniform of the discharged wounded said quietly, “God help him.”

I could see my corner coming up now, and I dreaded getting down. Even in my boots, my feet were icy cold from the long wait, and my gloved fingers as well, although I’d tried to keep them tucked under my arms.

Stepping down in the lee of the omnibus, I had a moment to catch my breath before it moved on and the full brunt of the wind struck me with such force that I nearly stumbled.