HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason Read Free Page B

began.
    We had just passed through a little village called Endernffords when our coach was forced to stop on the ramp approaching a swing-bridge over a narrow river. Screams of suffering rent the peace. Such wild, blood-curdling howls, at first I thought that they were human. I leapt up from my seat, pulled hard on the sash, dropped the window, and leaned out of the carriage to see what was going on.
    ‘A farmer’s cart has skidded on the ice,’ I reported over my shoulder to Koch. The horse had slipped its traces, and it lay on its back in the middle of the road, one of its fore-legs dangling broken in the air. A man stood over the animal, howling drunken curses and lashing out viciously at the fallen beast with his whip. My first impulse was to get down, though whether to help the doomed horse, or to berate the senseless cruelty of the driver, I cannot say. What followed happened so quickly and in a manner so well-ordered, I was convinced that such things were a common occurrence at that isolated crossing, and I remained where I was.
    Every man present at the scene – there were four of them sitting on the wooden beam of the bridge – seemed to know exactly what was going on. Three of these idlers rushed out suddenly, one brandishing a long curved knife, the other two with raised axes in their fists. The knife-blade flashed, then sliced through the horse’s straining neck. The keening wail of the beast’s distress died in a whistle of spouting blood and froth which turned the snow beneath the murderer’s feet into a gory, reddish mash. The driver froze, the whip raised high above his head, then, in a flash, without a word, he dropped his whip, turned, and ran away, slithering and lurching across the bridge to safety. In silence, the butchers fell upon the carcass with their axes. It was the work of a minute. Steam rose all about them in a swirling cloud as they furiously hacked and chopped the fallen animal into a dozen pieces, then quickly loaded the meat up onto the cart. The fourth man hurried forward, helping the brigands load the cart, then push it out of the way, signalling to our coach to pass across the swing-bridge.
    My legs gave way and I sat down. But I jumped up quickly again to close the window. As we passed by the cart with its disgusting load of offal, flesh and guts, the stench of fresh blood filled our coach in a warm, engulfing haze. It was sweet, nauseating, corrosive, painful to my sensibility.
    ‘Hard times breed hard men,’ said Sergeant Koch quietly. ‘What are we to do about that, sir?’
    I closed my eyes and leaned back against the leather bench.
    ‘They’re probably starving,’ I murmured. ‘Hunger has driven many a good man to shame.’
    ‘Let’s hope they’re ready to butcher Frenchmen with the same enthusiasm,’ Koch said dryly. ‘If Bonaparte turns up in Prussia, there won’t be anything left to eat, let alone horses. Then we’ll see what sort of men they really are.’
    ‘Pray God, we are never put to the test!’ I replied, more sharply than I meant.
    Another hour passed with very little said on either side.
    ‘Whoever saw such a sky!’ exclaimed Koch suddenly, shaking me from my lethargy. ‘It looks as if the whole lot’s going to come crashing down about our ears, sir. Foul weather’s fit punishment for our sins, the proverb says.’
    There was something almost comical about the seriousness of the man. The lurching of the coach had shifted his tricorn hat on his head, stark black strands of hair peeping out from beneath the stiff white curls of his periwig like shy maidens. I gave a nod and smiled, making the decision to pass the remainder of the journey in a more sociable manner. And yet, I hardly knew how. From a professional point of view, Koch was my inferior, little better than a servant.
    ‘This would be a good moment for you to examine these papers, Herr Stiffeniis,’ Sergeant Koch announced, reaching for his bag before I had the opportunity to