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

was no stranger to hunger, but starving as he was now was a new experience. In the midst of his misery, a chuckle slipped out. Tonight, would be a good time for someone to solve world hunger one person at a time, and he’d be standing at the head of the line.

His upper back muscles were still in tight knots. Since the bucking his guards had forced him to endure, no amount of stretching his neck and shoulders had reduced the spasms. Spikes of pain jabbed straight through him, and he groaned.

Shambling, he moved toward the small window until he reached the full length of the chain. Boards were nailed to the opening, blocking out light, but they couldn’t diminish the cannons roaring in the background or the shouting mob. The prisoners would be marched through streets packed with half-crazed Richmonders. Spotting Jack would be difficult. He’d have to stay alert and ready for his chance to escape.

He sniffed at the cracks between the boards, trying to get a breath of less-rancid air. The faint scents of fish and sulfur and smoke, and something else—whisky—hit his nostrils. Whisky? Either someone was drinking near his window, or the city was drowning itself in drink. Not a bad idea when an army you couldn’t defeat was marching toward your front door.

The squeaky door at the top of the stairs opened. Braham instinctively folded his arms across his chest, opening and closing his hands, breathing through his mouth, and cringing with each loud heel strike. Conversations were too muffled for him to distinguish words.

How should he play this? If he appeared in a weakened condition, the guards wouldn’t see him as a threat and might relax their vigilance, giving him an opportunity to escape. If they judged him too weak, would they shoot him, or leave him behind? If the warehouses used for prisons burned down in the city fire, he’d die for sure if he was left behind.

He gritted his teeth against the fear, but it lingered inside him, making his breathing fast and shallow and his heart hammer. He would appear not too alert, but not weak either. He sat, closed his eyes, and leaned against the rough timber walls of his cell, mentally preparing for what lay ahead.

Sweat poured off him while he waited agonizing minutes for his cell door to open. He counted the crossbars sliding out of the cleats and the doors thrown back. His heart beat faster with each one.

Finally, the guards were at his door, jingling the keys.

Each deep breath he took was a piercing insult to the muscles in his back, which were cramping and burning like he’d been slammed against the wall.

The crossbar slid back with a heavy, dull noise. Clunk. The door swung open, and he steeled his body and mind for the blows he knew were coming.

A guard shuffled into the cell. “Get up.”

Braham recognized the voice of the man who had beaten him. He tensed. Any punch would double him over. More than one and he might not be able to get up at all.

“He can’t, Sarge. He’s beat up.” The voice belonged to the red-headed lad Braham had seen earlier.

“Maybe he needs another beatin’. You want another beatin’, traitor?” He slurred the word as if it disgusted him to say it.

Braham raised his head. If his mouth and lips hadn’t been so dry and cracked, he would have spat on the son of a bitch.

The lad grabbed Braham’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Do it later, Sarge. We don’t have time.”

Braham hung his head again, moaning softly. The sergeant unlocked the bolt securing the shackle around his ankle. With the heavy weight no longer dragging on his leg, a sensation of weightless filled him with unexpected energy. He bit the insides of his cheeks to conceal his relief. The guard shoved him out into the hall, where the other prisoners waited at the point of a bayonet.

A guard shoved him, knocking him into the wall. “Move.”

Braham wavered and tried to regain his balance. His fists clenched with fury, and he snapped them tight, like a gunfighter on a draw.

A guard holding a bayonet poked Braham’s gut with it, and with a voice rough as rust, he said, “Go ahead. Try hitting me.”

Hancock touched Braham’s shoulder. “Friend, we don’t need a fight. Lean on me.”

The guard shoved Braham again, but this time the shoving hand landed smack in the middle of Braham’s injured back. He let out a cry of pain.

The guard laughed. “Move out, or you can stay behind permanently, if you get my meaning.”

There were three things Highlanders were raised to cherish: their home, a woman, and a good fight. Braham itched to give back what he’d been subjected to, but Hancock wrapped Braham’s arm over his shoulder and urged him forward and up the stairs. Out in the enclosed yard the area teemed with hundreds of recalcitrant prisoners flashing belligerent attitudes and bellowing about a forced march late at night.

A sentry handed Braham and Hancock each a hunk of cornbread. “Eat slow. It’s got to last three days.”

Braham took a bite, spat out a worm, and took another bite. He needed nourishment. If he remained in captivity three more days, he’d most likely need a casket.

Sentries with rifles and bayonets herded them into a long formation. Others took positions along the sides to guard the prisoners as they marched out of the prison environs and into the crowded street.

“Stay to the rear,” Lohmann said. “We’re breaking away soon as there’s an opening.”

“And go where?” Hancock asked.

“Miss Van Lew’s,” White said.

Braham had decided to escape at the first opportunity, whether Jack was there or not.

The guards herded uneven columns of weary and tattered prisoners into the city at bayonet point, shouting orders and clearing a path. The prisoners at the front of the lines taunted the crowd, yelling angry slurs. A bystander threw a rock in response and violence flared immediately.

“Now,” Lohmann said.

While the guards were distracted,