An Officers Justice – Anthony Morland

“Henry’s imagination questions everything.” Eleanor turned her head a fraction toward Henry’s column. “Then we must not give it more ammunition than it already has, my infantryman.” William smiled, and as they began to move, his hand drifted once more to the hidden locket at his chest. He did not look at it. He did not need to. She was walking beside him now, and that fact felt more dangerous, and more precious, than anything he had carried out of a battlefield.

1kitap1.com/en Chapter 12 William stepped out of St. Mary’s into the late light and found, for an instant, that the heat felt sharper than it had before. The church’s cool air had held him steady. Outside, the world returned with its noise and glare and the ordinary movement of men who did not know what had just passed between two people in a pew. Harikiran waited near the steps, exactly where William would have expected him. The havildar stood with Tempête’s reins in hand, his posture respectful, his attention already ranging across the open space as though the fort yard and its lanes were a field position that could be turned.

The three sepoy scouts were a few paces back, mounted and still. They had learned William’s habits by now. They did not crowd him. They did not pretend not to watch. William adjusted his hat, more to give himself a moment than for any need, then stepped down to Tempête’s shoulder.

Harikiran bobbed his head slightly. “Sahib.” William’s answer was quiet. “We will return.” Harikiran handed over the reins. No questions, no comment. He had seen enough in William’s face to know that the ride back would not be filled with talk. William mounted, settled the horse beneath him, and glanced once toward the church door.

Henry would be there, speaking to the sexton, making himself useful in the way he always did. Eleanor would be somewhere nearby, not hidden, not truly. Simply waiting in the manner of a woman who understood what a soldier’s day could demand. William did not go back inside. He touched his heel lightly, and Tempête moved off at a measured walk.

Harikiran mounted beside him, a half step behind, and the scouts fell in without being told. They left the fort by a gate where the sentries knew William’s face and knew better than to ask questions.

© 2026 Anthony Morland All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise. Prior written permission of the author is required, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews, articles, or critical analyses. This is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Where real historical figures or events are included, they are presented in a fictional context. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events beyond historical context is purely coincidental. First Edition Cover design by Anthony Morland ISBN [to be assigned] Self-published by Anthony Morland Printed in the United States of America 1kitap1.com/en Table of Contents Prologue (Part 1) Prologue (Part 2) Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue Historical Note: The Pursuit and Death of Dhoondia Waugh (1800) Author’s Note Other Books in the Life of William Culpepper 1kitap1.com/en To my wife Lynette, whose love and support guide me always, And to our son, Parker, a wonderful gift from God.

My life is enriched because of you both. 1kitap1.com/en Prologue (Part 1) Captain Johann Meier had ceased to count the days. The cell was little more than a pit hacked into the red earth, its walls slick with damp and crawling with worms and centipedes. A thread of light filtered through a cracked lintel above, enough to show the rats that lived among the refuse and the bones of those who had not survived.

His uniform, once spotless and brass-buttoned, hung from him in filthy rags. His face had grown into something hollow and sharp, his eyes fever-bright and wild. His beard was a mat of filth, and his lips cracked with thirst. The Marathas who had captured him had not killed him, though at times he wished they had. They had left him to rot, feeding him just enough to keep him alive.

When the door finally opened, the sudden brightness burned his eyes. Two guards hauled him up by the arms as though he were a corpse too stubborn to die. He stumbled, his bare feet scraping stone, the skin on his ankles rubbed raw from the chains. The corridor beyond smelled of spice and a sweetness that made his empty stomach twist.

They dragged him down a hall lined with torches and into a large pavilion open to the hot afternoon light. There, beneath a canopy of dyed silk, sat a man known only as the Elephant Trainer. He reclined on a couch of carved teak, one hand idly stroking a long ivory cane that rested across his knees.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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