"Forgive them before it is too late, Papa. Too late for Friedrich. Too late for you. Before you cry with the teacher in Ecclesiastes, 'In vain, in vain. Everything is utterly in vain.' "
Chaplain Pistor turned his head to the other side of the cot.
Derek Utt was tired of staff meetings. Still . . . he was holding one. Another one. "Brahe has to get back to Mainz to deal with the anti-Semitic movement in the Rhineland. Mostly it's been fairly orderly, but in places, it is getting out of hand."
Joel Matowski stood at as close to attention as he ever managed to get.
"You're going back to Fulda, Joel. You're in charge of the detachment returning MacDonald and Geraldin for trial. Kidnaping. Complicity to murder in connection with Schweinsberg's death. Have Hartke tell off twenty five men to go with you. He knows what I want, so he won't assign anyone who would get the idea of 'doing us a favor' by cutting their throats some dark night."
"Envy may be a sin, so color me green. I wish we had gotten that duty," Simrock said in disgust the next morning. "We don't get to take them back and see them hang. We get to sort through all the debris they abandoned in their tents."
"Yes, oh, whee." Theo picked up an oblong box that looked like a portable camp desk and unlatched it, unfolding the various parts. "This looks promising . . . what the hell?"
Simrock shook his head. "It's not a desk. It's a field altar, with a little chalice and a tiny bottle of wine and some hosts—everything a priest needs to say mass."
"Here's a book in the drawer underneath. It's by some guy named 'Carve' who says that he's Butler's chaplain, right on the front page," Jeffie said. "Maybe he's a friend of Gruyard and they go around carving up people together."
"His name isn't 'Carve,' " Theo said with disgust. You're looking at capital letters, in Latin. There isn't any letter "U" the way there is in German—or in English, for that matter. The name's 'Carue' on the title page. In English, it ought to be "Carew,' I suppose, but if you printed that in Germany, almost everyone would want to say, 'Carev.' Stick with 'Carue.' Let me look."
Jeffie tossed it to him.
"This isn't a printed book. It's just a manuscript. He's just drawn the front to look as much like an engraved title page as he can. I guess he plans to publish it and wants the printer to have some idea of how he would like it to look, with family crests and stuff."
"What's it about?"
Simrock started paging through it. "God damn it, Jeffie. Run. Stop Matowski and the other the guys who are leaving with the Irishmen, right now."
Jeffie ran.
"Theo, get Colonel Utt."
"See," Simrock said to Derek Utt. "He's labeled it a 'book of travels.' Reisebüchlein, that is. Just the front page of it has the Latin-shaped letters. The rest of it's in German. My dictionary says that Reisebüchlein means a 'guide for travelers,' but . . ."
"It's a journal of the travels he's already done," Theo said. We read parts of it while Jeffie was chasing after you. It has notes on everywhere he's been, and where he's been is with Walter Butler as he ravaged his way across Europe these last ten years or so. He's been back to Ireland to visit his family a couple of times, but the rest of it, he's been with the Irish regiments—either with Butler or, if he wasn't in the field, with Deveroux."
"He's written down everywhere they have been," Simrock added. "And everything they've done. Talk about evidence . . ."
Jeffie shook his head. "He wasn't in Fulda with them when they kidnapped Schweinsberg, though. They left him behind with MacDonald."
Derek Utt looked at him sharply.
"Yeah, so we peeked."
"But he does say when they caught up with their regiments again, chasing after Archbishop Ferdinand after he retreated from Bonn."
"Simrock, take it to Joel," Utt said. "I'm sure the prosecutors will be happy to have it. Just let me write him a memo. Donner, you and Garand go with Sergeant Hartke to re-interview the rest of our prisoners. We're looking for someone named Thomas Carue, who may or may not be owning up to his name right now. Whatever he knows, we need to know it. Hartke, find me someone reliable in the middle of this mess. I need to send a memo on this over to General Brahe."
"You can ignore all the young prisoners, Sergeant Hartke," Simrock said on his way out the door, adding "sir" at the last minute, "unless you just want them to point him out to you if you can't find him any other way. This Carue has to be somewhere in his forties. The book says he's been a priest for a long time now. If you have anyone with you who can sort out different Irish accents, take him with you." Again, he tagged on, "sir," barely in time.