He had to work fast, for he knew fear would stay his hand if he paused to contemplate the enormity of his actions. Quickly he fashioned a noose. Scanning the room again, he was startled to hear a curse come to his lips.
The ceiling was bare; there was nothing to tie the other end to. Desperately he looked about again and then with a chill realized there was only one chance. He'd have to tie the rope to the window bars, then pull his own feet up and thus dangle until strangulation choked out his life.
But when unconsciousness came, would his legs drop and thus save him? There was only one alternative. He looped the noose through the window bars, then pulled the chair that Brian had sat on over to the window. Kneeling on the chair,
he then took another coil of rope. With trembling hands he looped two coils around his ankles, hooked the ropes through his belt, and tied his feet securely to his backside.
"God forgive me this sin," he whispered hoarsely. Balanced on the chair, he placed the noose around his neck, cinched it up tightly,
then
grabbed the chair with his hands.
The memory of snow washed over him, gentle falling snow outside the window of the chapel, and Bonnie's eyes gazing at him.
The chair clattered out from under him and the rope went taut.
"Dammit, he won't do a goddam thing other than send an envoy. He thinks they're already dead," Andrew roared. "I've wasted a day and a half with him. We could have been near Novrod by now. Let them see what a field battery can do to their walls and I'd get Sadler and
Hawthorne back damn quick."
"Have a drink, son," Emil said softly, offering his friend a glass of the now precious brandy.
"Those are two of my boys," Andrew snapped between sips. "I lost ten men out there yesterday, counting O'Donald's two. James was the eleventh. I'll be damned if I'll lose two more."
"And what do you propose?" Emil said softly.
"We go back to
Fort
Lincoln
tomorrow morning, put the regiment in marching order, and head for Novrod, and Ivor be damned. The regiment takes care
of its own
, it always has, and by God it always will. By heaven, man, we've only lost prisoners twice, at Antietam and
Gettysburg, and that was to rebs, who at least obeyed the rules of war. You see how Ivor hangs his enemies and criminals from the wall. Good God, man, he took some of their wounded this morning and hung 'em out there to die. It was enough to turn your stomach."
"Damn right," Hans mumbled in the corner of the room. "Damn barbarians they are."
"If Ivor says no?"
Emil replied.
"I owe my loyalty to the regiment first," Andrew snapped. "My men come first, and damn anyone who gets in the way of that."
"You might have a full-scale war on your hands. Ivor's the only ally we've got," Emil cautioned.
"Then I'll give him Novrod when I'm finished as a payoff. That ought to make him happy."
"He's in a power game we're not even sure of," Emil replied. "Attack Novrod and you might upset his cart, and bring everything crashing down on us as well."
"Better that than sinking to their level of justice. I don't want anyone here to think he can take a man from my command to do with as he pleases."
"I think you're wrong," Emil said quietly.
"Then think me wrong. I don't want a word of this until the regiment is formed. You're to load the injured aboard the
Ogunquit
tonight. At dawn we go back to
Fort
Lincoln
and form up."
Hans stood up and smiled, slapping his thigh.
"It'll be a damn good fight," the old sergeant said, looking proudly at Andrew. Draining his glass, he strode from the room.
Andrew turned away. In his heart he knew this was the wrong move; he'd loose a lot more men before it was done. But the strength of the regiment was in the knowledge that every man, if need be, would fight to save a single comrade in distress. None of them could sit idly by at the thought of Sadler, and especially the bright-eyed Hawthorne, facing possible torture.
The world was spinning, his lungs near bursting. This must be a foretaste of hell, and the terror of it made him want to scream, but that luxury could not be had by a man who was hanging.
In spite of himself he started to jerk and squirm on the end of the rope, fighting the wild urge to grab hold of the line and pull himself up.
Suddenly there was a grating noise and the line jerked down several inches, yanking the noose even tighter about his throat. A trickle of stones rained down around him.
The iron bar holding the rope must have moved! Desperate, he reached up and grabbed hold of the rope. He felt his lungs were near exploding. Bright stars started to flash before his eyes; hot streaks of agony coursed to his brain as every nerve seemed to scream for air.
He tried to pull himself up, but his arms were too weak.
There was another grating sound and the rope jerked down another inch. With a final lunge of despair he pulled himself up by the rope, and his right hand shot out and grabbed a bar.
The world was starting to lose focus, as if he were looking down a long dark tunnel. Hanging now by one hand, he tore frantically at the rope about his neck. For a terrifying moment it wouldn't give.
Suddenly the knot loosened. With a shriek he drew in a lungful of air, and another and another.
Gasping, he worked feebly at the rope, loosening the knot. As he pulled the noose over his head, Vincent let go with his right hand and crashed to the ground.
He wasn't sure if it was a minute or an hour until consciousness returned. His neck felt as if it were wrapped in fiery metal.
With trembling hands he loosened the bonds that held his legs and, weak-kneed, came to his feet. The noose still dangled from the iron bar. Reaching out, he grabbed the barrier and pulled.
The bar didn't move. Sobbing, he pulled again, and still it did not budge. Had he dreamed it in the final moment, and saved himself? Would he now have to face that horror again?
Cursing wildly at his fate, he slammed the bar with his fist, and it gave back easily with a sharp grating noise.
So it had moved! Eagerly the young soldier shook the bar several times. There were several inches of play in it, but a heavy lintel stone prevented it from popping all the way out.
There had to be a way. He'd given up too easily. Had God sent him this sign after all, to use the gift of his mind to find a way out?
Sitting back down, he let his eyes wander about the room looking for some possible way, for he now reasoned his death would not have been stopped if God had not wished him to somehow escape.
An hour later he was ready. It had taken nearly all that time to quietly pry a leg free from the chair Sadler had been bound to. Taking a section of rope he had tied it to the loose bar, and then weaved the rope back and forth several times around a stationary bar and then back to the loose bar again.
Whispering a silent pray he slipped the chair leg in between the ropes and then
turn
it like a windlass. The ropes started to coil, the slackness going out of them. After a dozen revolutions of the chair leg the ropes were now taut and resistance to his turning motion became harder. Pulling the leg towards his body
Hawthorne now needed both hands, and after another revolution
be
was bracing his feet against the wall, the muscles of his arms knotting and straining.
He felt as if he could not tighten the ropes any further and his prayer changed to a silent curse. A muffled groan escaped his lips, sweat beaded his brow and then ever so slowly he saw the loosened iron bar start to bend in the middle.
"Dear God give me strenth," he whispered.
The bar bent inward, a dusting of mortar drifted down, and then with a grating tear the bar snapped inward, popping out of its mount. With a loud clatter Vincent fell to the floor.
Terrified he snatched up the iron bar and hunched down, staring at the door, waiting for a response from his jailers. For what seemed like an eternity he sat in silence, animal instincts coiling his muscles, ready to spring.
There was no response and gradually he relaxed, stood up and and stuck his head out the window, to see that his cell was a good twenty feet off the ground.
Tucking the bar into his belt, he set to work.
A moment later
Hawthorne wormed his way through the narrow opening.
Grabbing hold of the rope, which was now tied to a well-secured bar, he quickly slid down the line, burning his hands in the process.
Fortunately it was still dark, but in the east there was an ever so faint lightening to the sky. He wouldn't have much time. Looking up and down the narrow alleyway, he realized one direction was as good as another. Pulling the iron bar from his belt, he started out at a run.
For several desperate minutes he feared he was completely lost, and would wander thus until, with the coming of dawn, the alarm would be raised. But turning the next corner, he was confronted by the wooden palisades of the city wall.
For several minutes he peered at it cautiously. It seemed that no one was on the battlement.
He hit the nearest ladder at the run and quickly scaled to the top. Another twenty-foot drop confronted him. Desperate, he looked for some way to get over the side.
"Hey!"
Startled,
Hawthorne looked up. A guard was approaching him.
The man shouted something, and
Hawthorne, desperate, merely shrugged his shoulders.
The guard came right up alongside and started to speak.
Suddenly his eyes grew wide.
"Yankee!" the guard hissed.
As if driven by animal instinct,
Hawthorne slashed out with his iron bar, and with a sickening crunch the man's helmet collapsed inward.
With a shriek, the man staggered backward, fell from the battlement, and was still.
Shouts rose up from a watchtower farther down the wall. An arrow hissed past, missing Vincent by inches.
Closing his eyes, he leaped atop the battlement and jumped.
Hitting hard, he rolled away from the wall, and in an instant was up and running wildly toward the river. Another arrow snapped past. Vincent staggered and fell, and was up again, still running madly, a shaft sticking out of his thigh.
He hit the muddy shore, and grabbing hold of a light skiff, pushed it out into the river. Leaping in, he took hold of the oars and started to pull madly. The shoreline dropped away, the faint outline of the city in the early-morning light drifting from sight as a turn in the river pushed him away from view.
For what seemed like hours he rowed without stopping, unmindful of his bleeding hands and the agony of his throat. Finally as the terror subsided, he looked down at the wound. The shaft was buried in the fleshy part of his leg. Nerving himself, he tried to pull it out, but fell backward weeping from the pain.
He spied a rusty fishing knife in the bottom of the skiff and used it to saw the shaft off near the
wound,
each cut an agony as the vibration fired every nerve in his leg. Taking off his shirt, he tore out a bandage and bound the wound tight, finally stemming the flow of blood. Then, picking up the oars, he started in again, driven by the fear that the hawk-faced priest would appear at any moment, carrying the snake basket and cackling with delight.
The sun rose to its zenith and crossed the sky. Trembling with exhaustion,
Hawthorne finally fell over and lay out to rest. But his rest was disturbed when in the distance he heard a thunder which grew ever louder.
With his last ounce of strength, the boy pulled his head up and looked out over the water. The river was moving faster now, coursing between a series of steep hills. He could see a curtain of spray rising ahead . . . rapids. Looking back up the river, he saw a small vessel like a miniature Viking ship round a bend in the river, its oars rising and dropping rhythmically. So they had caught up after all, he thought numbly.
The skiff started to pitch and roll with the current, but
Hawthorne was beyond caring. Swooning, he fell back down, and the blackness washed over him.
It had been a near thing, Andrew thought grimly as he walked across the square of the city. He did not even bother to acknowledge the bows of the residents who stopped to watch him pass. Since the fight by the river, word had spread about how the small detachment had met five times their own number and driven them back with great slaughter, and the mood of the city had changed overnight from wariness to outright displays of affection.
Reaching the cathedral, Andrew pushed open the doors and stormed in.
Two hours ago the regiment had been formed, rations issued, eighty rounds of ammunition per man passed out, the one piece of artillery with a full complement of horses limbered and ready.