The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) π

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- Author: Katherine Logan
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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 sheβd ever done in her life. She struggled, but found her voice again and asked, βCan you stand, Mr. Jackson? If you want to leave here tonight, you have to walk.β She slipped her hand into her pocket and palmed the four pills sheβd placed there earlier. Then she stepped over to him and took his arm. βLet me help you.β
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. βThese prisoners arenβt allowed visitors.β
She stomped down on her good foot, putting herself mere inches from the foul-breathed sergeantβs face. βI am not a visitor. Iβm a major in the Army of Northern Virginia on assignment to evaluate prisoners for ambulation, which includesββshe jabbed her finger in Brahamβs directionββthis man.β
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. βThis prisoner can obviously walk. Iβm done here.β
βAll prisoners down here will be evacuated on the order of the warden. If they canβt keep up, theyβll be shot.β The sergeant left the cell and shoved the door back against the wall again, metal bolt clanging against the wood.
Charlotte leaned close to Braham and slipped pills into his hand, giving it a squeeze. βRest up. Youβll need to be strong for tonight.β She intentionally didnβt look in his eyes. If she did, she would betray them both.
When she hobbled out, she asked, βIs he the final prisoner?β
βYes.β 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 floorboard. 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.
βYou coming?β the sergeant asked.
She cleared away the knot in her throat. βYes.β
βHow many did you count?β he asked.
βFifty-two,β she said. βSome in the sick bay wonβt last the night. Everyone down here is on their feet and should be evacuated, even the last one.β
βHe,β he said, thrusting out his thumb, βwill be leaving, even if we have to skewer him with a tobacco stick.β The sergeant spat more juice, hitting a rat. Then he yanked the keys from the redheaded private, gripping them tightly in his meaty paw. βThe warden wants his neck in a noose as soon as he gives up the names of the Richmond underground leaders.β
βNot sure it matters much now.β
βDoes to the captain.β The sergeant nodded toward the stairs. βLetβs get out of here.β
His hand squeezed the keys, his knuckles scabbed and still bloody, and she knew his fist had been the instrument of damage to Brahamβs face. What a son of a bitch. If she ever saw him lying on the floor bleeding, sheβd forsake her Hippocratic Oath and leave the room.
There is only one way in which one can endure manβs inhumanity to man and that is to try, in oneβs own life, to exemplify manβs humanity to man.
βArenβt there exceptions?β she remembered asking her grandfather.
βNo,β heβd 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 Brahamβs cell and put both their lives at risk. βGo ahead. Itβll take me longer to climb.β
The men climbed the rickety staircase, their boots scuffing against the wood. The sergeant spat 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
Braham 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 wardenβs 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 telltale 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 Brahamβs 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. Bootheels scraped across weathered floorboards. They were coming to interrogate him again. The warden always dragged out his approach to the cells, playing on the prisonersβ 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
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