Luther watched Major Welter with complete attention.
Welter sat back in his chair. “I’m a professional soldier. It’s my business to judge men. I judge them against the harshest environment there is. You and I were given commands far beyond what a soldier could normally be expected to accomplish. We might have died too, but we didn’t. We have to live, to go on, if for no other reason than to live long enough to figure out why it turned out this way. You and I deserve peace as much as the next man.
“Another reason I’m here is to counsel you on what’s going to happen when you go back to the states.”
For an instant a terrified look passed over Luther’s face. Major Welter didn’t see it.
“General Taylor, has announced your Medal of Honor. Before you give me any trouble,” —objection was written across Luther’s face— “you listen. I’ve seen a good many medals handed out. Many were deserved. I’m of the opinion you deserve yours as much as any man I’ve ever soldiered with. You don’t want it for yourself. I understand that. ”
Major Welter saw Luther’s despair. “You and I can’t give them back their lives. Christ knows, we want to. It’s out of our hands. “You will be a good soldier as you have been since you were seventeen years old, Sergeant Major Martin Luther Cole. You will obey your commanding officer, me, and stand in front of the President of the United States while he hangs that little bauble around you neck.
“And if I’m there, which I hope I will be, we will think of all the good men who should be there with us. We will not forget when the rest of the country has, as they always do.”
“Sir, I ‘preciate your comin’ here, a lot.”
“Good, good. I talked with nurse Pell before I came up. Nice woman; pretty, thinks a lot of you. You might think about asking her to go back to West Virginia with you.”
Luther flushed and stammered. “Now Major, no call to talk like that. She is a fine woman, but she’s educated. Me, I didn’t get past the seventh grade.”
“Uh, huh, I know. I also know education hasn’t got anything to do with how a woman feels when she being held by a man she cares for. You’re twenty four years old, Luther, plenty of time to learn what you need. “It was just a thought, Sergeant, I don’t mean to push.”
Major welter stood up to leave. Luther stood also and came to attention. Major Welter took his salute then shook Luther’s hand.
“In years to come when I talk of soldiers, your name will always come up, Sergeant Major. Despite what you think, you’re more than a good soldier, you’re a good man, and I am proud to have soldiered with you.”
After the Major left Luther opened his duffel and removed the violin case. He held it in his lap for a moment, then opened the case. He laid his hands on the wood and talked to God, who never seemed to be far from him.
A VILLA NORTH OF ROME, 1715
Count Domenici Paisello was dying, alone except for a manservant and his cook. He had fallen prey to the adage that the worst punishment in life is to outlive one’s children.
Plague, wars, and politics had tormented and finally killed them all. A man who devoted his entire life to music at the expense of his family, he felt shame. Yet he could not find regret for a part of life he’d never really experienced.
All his true memories were of music. He had heard them all. Bach, Boccherini, Haydn, Gluck, Scarlatti, Vivaldi. He drank with them, argued with them, and always played their music.
Count Paisello had been the greatest violinist of his age. They all come to him, asked his advice, wrote pieces especially for him, and he for them. Life enough for any man. He wanted no more. All the rest had been a surprise. In years long past he occasionally noticed his children waiting to see him. They were strangers. He wondered where they came from; surely they couldn’t all be his?
Now they were gone. The last had died during an Influenza epidemic twenty years before. Yet, Count Paisello wasn’t ready to die. He had one more thing to do; one more thing he must do. He had been the King, and with Kings there is always the matter of succession.
His servants were puzzled. He saw it in their eyes. They waited for him to die. A great joke. He laughed at them and they didn’t understand.
Thirty years before he traveled north and received into his hand the great violin called, Hercules. It was a mountain of a memory; the linchpin of his musical life. All things were measured as coming before or after that moment. It had been given into his hand, reluctantly, by the Maestro of Cremona himself.
Now he would do his duty; a most honorable duty. He had been twenty years making up his mind. Three weeks earlier he received a letter from the one selected saying he would come as soon as possible.
Count Paisello slept as ‘The Master of Nations’, as Giuseppe Tartini was called, arrived.
All the long trip from Padua to Rome, Tartini worried he would be too late. The Count said he was dying, but that he would delay the event until he, Tartini, arrived. He went on to say that that which he would give Maestro Tartini must be placed into his care by his own hand.
Tartini, called by the Count’s manservant, that northerner with the nose, was led to the Count’s bedchamber, where he settled himself in a comfortable chair. The servant brought him a carafe of wine and left.
When the count woke he saw his old friend, wrapped in his cloak, dozing, glass still clutched in his hand.
“Tartini...” his voice weak. Tartini did not stir. “Tartini...” louder this time.
Tartini woke with a start, looked at the glass and put it on a side table.
“Tartini...”
He got up quickly and went to the bed. He took the old Count’s hand in his own. “Count Paisello, my old friend,” he smiled, “it appears that I am not too late.”
The Count smiled the smile of children. What evil he had done in his life had been confessed or forgotten.
“You are not too late, old friend, though it has been a trial to stay alive when I have been so ready for death. “When I was younger, it was 1685, thirty years ago, I commissioned the Maestro of Cremona to make for me a great violin.”
He sighed, remembering the event.
“He excelled himself, to such an extent he did not want to give me what he had made. There, on the settee, bring it here.”
Tartini got up and brought the violin case to the bed.
“Open it, Giuseppe.”
Tartini opened the case. Count Domenici Paisello and Giuseppe Tartini looked at the golden perfection of a great violin.
“I have thought long about this moment. Who would be worthy? Not only in ability, but in character. I knew from the beginning its possessor must be more than a great musician.
“The Maestro named it, Hercules. It is strong. It has the same mythical power. I give this to you, Giuseppe, and I ask you to do the same someday. I ask you to give it to another when you can no longer be the one to make it sing...”
The Count coughed weakly. “It is good. I have done what I wanted to do. I think now it is time to die.”
“Hear me, my Count,” Tartini pledged, “I will do all that you ask. I pray God help me be worthy of this gift.”
Count Benedici Paisello’s eyes closed. His last breath joined the small breezes of the Roman dusk.
Chapter 5
LUTHERSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA - 1951
Mud, thick and black