The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (48 page)

She couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat, past her scorching fury.

“What’s your name?” the young soldier asked.

He didn’t answer right away, and she wasn’t sure he had any voice left after everything his interrogators had done to him. She held her breath, waiting. Then, his jaw clenched, he said through his teeth, “Charles Jackson.”

The amount of suffering he had endured was unimaginable. Not being able to treat his wounds filled her with cold rage. To leave him behind, even for a short while, would be the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life. She struggled, but found her voice again and asked, “Can you stand, Mr. Jackson? If you want to leave here tonight, you have to walk.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and palmed the four pills she’d placed there earlier. Then she stepped over to him and took his arm. “Let me help you.”

The tobacco-spitting sergeant who had been stationed at the desk the floor above, entered the cell, shoving the door open so hard it bounced against the outside wall. He fisted his hands at his hips, and his bulk filled the doorway, muscles bulging, jowls quivering with fury. “These prisoners aren’t allowed visitors.”

She stomped down on her good foot, putting herself mere inches from the foul-breathed sergeant’s face. “I am
not
a visitor. I’m a
Major
in the Army of Northern Virginia on assignment to evaluate prisoners for ambulation, which includes—” she jabbed her finger in Braham’s direction, “—this man.”

Braham staggered to his feet and managed a step toward the sergeant, his nostrils flaring. His eyes shone almost black.

She moved between the two men and pointed her cane at the sergeant. “This prisoner can obviously walk. I’m done here.”

“All prisoners down here will be evacuated on the order of the warden. If they can’t keep up, they’ll be shot.” The sergeant left the cell and shoved the door back against the wall again, metal bolt clanging against the wood.

Charlotte leaned closed to Braham and slipped pills into his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Rest up. You’ll need to be strong for tonight.” She intentionally did not look into his eyes. If she did, she would betray them both.

When she hobbled out, she asked, “Is he the final prisoner?”

“Yes.” The private slammed the oak door and turned the heavy key in the lock.

The finality of the sliding bolt shattered her brief bravado. The hall, the door, the cell, quickly dissolved behind a layer of watery film. She stood cemented to the dirt floor. The rats could eat her shoes for all she cared. She leaned heavily against the door. As sweat poured down her face, tears poured through her soul.

“You coming?” the sergeant asked.

She cleared away the knot in her throat. “Yes.”

“How many did you count?” he asked.

“Fifty-two,” she said. “Some in the sick bay won’t last the night. Everyone down here is on their feet and should be evacuated, even the last one.”

“He,” he said, thrusting out his thumb, “will be leaving, even if we have to skewer him with a tobacco stick.” The sergeant spit more juice, hitting a rat. Then he yanked the keys from the red-headed private, gripping them tightly in his meaty paw. “The warden wants his neck in a noose as soon as he gives up the names of the Richmond underground leaders.”

“Not sure it matters much now.”

“Does to the captain.” The sergeant nodded toward the stairs. “Let’s get out of here.”

His hand squeezed the keys, his knuckles scabbed and still bloody, and she knew his fist had been the instrument of damage to Braham’s face. What a son of a bitch. If she ever saw him lying on the floor bleeding, she’d forsake her Hippocratic Oath and leave the room.

There is only one way in which one can endure man’s inhumanity to man and that is to try, in one’s own life to exemplify man’s humanity to man.

“Aren’t there exceptions?” she remembered asking her grandfather.

“No,” he’d said.

Well, Grandfather, you were wrong.

She gripped the rough wood railing to steady herself. She needed the support, but she also was afraid she might run back to Braham’s cell and put both their lives at risk. “Go ahead. It’ll take me longer to climb.”

The men climbed the rickety staircase, their boots scuffing against the wood. The sergeant spit as he climbed. She balanced her weight between the railing and the cane, protecting her bad foot, and hobbled up the stairs, slowly and carefully, whistling as she climbed. It was all she could do to leave Braham with a bit of hope.

55

Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865

B
raham awoke, and
immediate pain reminded him of his present condition. Instead of opening his eyes, he squeezed them tighter, as if not looking would change his situation. He had lost track of the days, but he thought the invasion was close. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. Could he take another day of the warden’s tenacious interrogation? At the thought, his mouth moved soundlessly, his face contorting in a rictus of agony.

One more day. He could survive one more day, unless they resorted to bucking again. He had heard of the torture device, and knew it left no tell-tale marks, but had never seen it used until they did it to him. They forced him into a sitting position on the ground with bended knees. His wrists were then bound together and tied to his ankles, his arms cradling his legs. When the guard picked up a tobacco stick, Braham doubted his constitution would withstand another beating. The sergeant had laughed with calm callousness as he passed the stick over Braham’s elbows and under his knees. He had then been forced to remain in the position for hours. When they finally removed the stick, his joints and back were frozen in the unnatural position, and were screaming in agony.

The door to the stairs leading to solitary confinement cells squeaked open. Fear crawled coldly through his empty stomach. Boot heels scraped across weathered floorboards. They were coming to interrogate him again. The warden always dragged out his approach to the cells, playing on the prisoners’ fear until they sometimes pissed themselves. At first Braham had tried to hide his dread behind a mask of indifference, but soon enough it had been pitilessly stripped away. Now he only tried to survive.

Someone whistling outside his door brought him fully alert. It wasn’t a sharp whistle to get someone’s attention. It was a recognizable tune. He puckered his parched lips, but his swollen face made it impossible for him to whistle in response. He blew out a steady stream of air, but no sound. Then he heard the whistle again, and in his haze, he thought he knew the whistler.

Not Charlotte.
Dear God, not in this demonic hold. It must be his imagination.

Thoughts of her had kept him sane during these long, cold nights, as did one of his favorite Robbie Burns songs which described her to perfection.
She’s sweeter than the morning dawn…Her hair is like the curling mist…Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem…Her lips are like yon cherries ripe…

God, he wished he could see her one more time. But what could he tell her that he hadn’t already said?

A rat crawled over his shoulder and nudged its mouth into the open wounds on his back. He swatted at the creature until it scurried away. Braham rolled over onto his wounds to keep the rat from burrowing back in. The straw pricked at the cuts made by the dozen lashes he’d received within hours of being arrested. He sucked air through his teeth and rolled onto his belly, sucked air again, and switched to his side. He couldn’t find a position to relieve the pains around his ribs. One of the many punches or kicks to his gut might have bruised a couple. They weren’t sticking out, and he could breathe, so at least his lungs weren’t punctured.

He rolled his tongue around his mouth. All of his teeth were still in place. The cuts on his head had stopped bleeding, but he’d had headaches for hours, maybe days. The growl in his stomach was louder now, too.

The first day, he’d removed worms from the bread he’d been given. Afterward, he ate whatever they gave him, which wasn’t much. He was still alive, and although he’d come close to revealing everything they wanted to know, he’d managed to keep his secrets. The guards set out to unman him, steal his courage and self-control. They had laughed when he pissed himself and vomited, and then they had left him to lie in his own filth and blood. Knowing the Union Cavalry would soon ride down Main Street was the only thing keeping hope alive.

When he heard boots stomp down the wobbly stairs, he sat up, heart racing. If they were coming for him, could he endure another pummeling or the lash? They had started on his back, then his buttocks, and finally his legs. They had left him threatening to move on to his front next time. Give them what they wanted, or suffer the whip and worse.

“You’ll never get a child on your whore when we’re done with you,” the guard had said.

The ring of keys clinked, and he shivered violently. His shaking leg rattled the chain attached to the iron ball, which he’d learned was too heavy to lift. A kettle drum pounded in his chest when footsteps reached his door. He let out a stifled groan as the men moved past his cell. The whistle again. The tune he had taught Charlotte. But she had gone home. His mind was playing tricks to torment him.

The bolt to one of the doors screeched opened and he heard voices, but couldn’t distinguish what they were saying. The door closed. Another door opened. More discussion. That door closed. He attempted to stand but fell back on his bloodied ass. The door to the adjoining cell opened.

“What’s your name?”

Braham heard only garbled words.

“Can you walk?”

He stilled to hear what was being said. Muffled sounds were muted by the roar of his heart pounding in his ears.

“Be ready.” The words were spoken in a deepened, familiar voice. Terror seized his gut.

A key grated in the lock and a wave of torchlight fell into the cell, temporarily blinding him. He rolled onto all fours and tried to stand. If evil was coming through the door, he would meet it face to face, not as a coward groveling on the dirt floor. If it was Charlotte, he wanted to be on his feet to meet her.

The chain rattled and rubbed against his raw ankle, but he kept trying to stand, twisting and pushing. During the whippings, he had been handcuffed to the wall and the prolonged, awkward stretch had strained the muscles in his arms and shoulders.

Two men entered. The red-haired lad he had seen before.

“Give me a minute,” Braham said. “I can stand.”

The lad turned to leave, mumbling, taking the light with him.

“No, wait,” the bearded officer said. “What’s your name?”

He shaded his rapidly blinking eyes from the light. “Charles Jackson.” Who was the bearded man? Why did he look familiar?

“Can you stand, Mr. Jackson? If you want to leave here tonight, you have to walk.”

The voice sounded so awkward, so out of place, it made him cringe.

The bearded officer came closer to him and took his arm. “Let me help you.”

Braham looked into the man’s eyes. Memories returned in searing flashes.
The man had rescued him once before. He wasn’t a man. He was Charlotte.
The shock was a bloody bayonet to the belly, ripping him open. Braham willed himself not to breathe, not to respond in any way. If he could react, though, what would he do, wring her neck or kiss her? He’d kiss her, and then he’d wring her neck—and Jack’s, too.

The asshole sergeant who had paid frequent visits to his cell entered, yelling, “These prisoners aren’t allowed visitors. Get out.”

Charlotte whipped around and got up into his face, slamming her cane against the dirt floor in punctuation. “I am
not
a visitor. I’m a
Major
in the Army of Northern Virginia on assignment to evaluate prisoners for ambulation, which includes—” she pointed to Braham, “—this man.”

The sergeant growled, raised a fist, and made a threatening gesture toward Braham. He willed himself to his feet and lunged forward. The chain, anchored to the wall by unbendable pins, groaned under the force of his weight, but held tight. A volcanic burn of fear scorched through him, and he pulled on the chain again, ignoring the raw pain in his ankle. Chained to the wall, he couldn’t protect her. He couldn’t do a damn thing.

The sergeant growled again before stomping from the cell.

Charlotte took Braham’s hand and slipped something into his palm. “Rest up. You’ll need to be strong for tonight.”

God, he wanted to pull her into his arms, but he had to let her go without acknowledging her. She had entered his world of darkness and brought slivers of light.

She hobbled out, putting little weight on her right foot. She was hurt. He made a sudden move to follow, but the damn chain held his leg in place. Concern, not pain, had shown in her eyes. Was the limp a ruse? Maybe so. Maybe no.

The cell door slammed shut and the lonely darkness enveloped him once again, but he remained standing, listening. Boot heels scraping against the floor faded, but still he listened until the door at the top of the stairs closed and locked, and Charlotte’s whistle became little more than a memory.