The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

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 close to Braham and slipped pills into his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Rest up. You’ll need to be strong for tonight.” She intentionally didn’t look in 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 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.

“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 spat more juice, hitting a rat. Then he yanked the keys from the redheaded 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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