Fires of Delight (3 page)

“Why did Campbell go to Haiti?” her interrogator persisted. “Will Washington attack New York or along the Chesapeake?”

“I don’t know.”

Oakley let the silence linger. He pulled a chubby gold watch from his coat pocket and looked at it. “Time runs short,” he said. “You know, Selena, I had intended to verify your answers by questioning other prisoners before I conversed with you again. I am not a man who enjoys inflicting pain, and until one has a feeling for the habits and intelligence of a witness, torture is inadvisable. The victim will say
anything
to mislead the interrogator and to avoid agony. That is not good, and the subsequent information is often unreliable. But I think that you are lying through your pretty teeth.”

He fixed her with his awful stare. “Would you lie with no teeth at all?”

“I am not lying,” replied Selena, her mouth dry. The muscles in her legs were screaming. She tried hard not to sway.

“Corporal Bonwit!” Oakley called loudly.

The door swung open and Bonwit appeared. “At y’ suvvice, sir!”

“Take the prisoner to the Room of Doom. She has been particularly uncooperative, and events compel me to accelerate the procedure.”

“No,” gasped Selena, in spite of an effort to maintain her composure.

“Ah!” Oakley smiled. “You wish to answer my questions, do you?”

“I know nothing,” Selena said, faltering.

“Selena, Selena. Is there not a bond between us? We both respond to beauty. Why can we not share a love of truth as well? You cannot elude me, you cannot evade me. I shall pursue you, as it were, down all the corridors of time. Once you feel the bite of the whip, our union shall be consummated. I had wished it to be a bond of understanding, not of pain. But—”

Oakley let his voice trail off. “So be it,” he said, lifting a hand languidly and letting it fall. “Corporal, ready the prisoner for what she has chosen. I shall join you in a moment.”

“Why couldn’t y’ ’ave told ’im what ’e wanted t’ know?” whined the corporal, as he led Selena from the room. “I’ll ’ave t’ be there t’ take down your answers, an’ the wails an’ the cries turn m’ bowels all t’ mush.”

Afraid herself and preparing for the worst, Selena still retained the wit to notice that Bonwit was genuinely upset. He had even forgotten to force the blindfold upon her. They walked in the open air. She saw the low buildings of New York spread out along the harbor, and the great houses along the Battery, one of which had been her own such a short time ago. (Sean Bloodwell had risen quickly in America, had become a prosperous merchant before his elevation to the British nobility.) The sun was large in the sky, gloriously warm, but falling across the plains of New Jersey to the west. It would soon be evening.

“Y’ know, I…I take a likin’ to ye, Selena,” Bonwit babbled. “If there be some way I could get ye out of this…”

Unlikely. Selena looked over the battlements of the fortress. She was about forty feet above the waters of New York Harbor, and it was at least fifty yards from the fortress to the piers along the shore. Quite a dive. Quite a swim. Broad daylight.

But she could attempt it.

“If you were to turn away for a moment—” she suggested.

The corporal shook his head. “No kin do, missy, no kin do. Or it’ll be me a’screamin’ in the Room of Doom. Why couldn’t ye ’ave just told ’im what he wanted t’ know?”

Loyalty
, thought Selena.
Loyalty to a cause, and to the people who served that cause
. But loyalty is a double-edged sword, and she understood that Bonwit had his own neck to think about. Just before he guided her through a stone gateway, back into the gloomy interior of the fortress, she saw a small rowboat approaching the prison. It was filled with red-coated soldiers. They seemed excited, enjoying themselves, and she thought for a fleeting instant how wonderful it would be to be free again.

They passed down a long flight of flagstone steps and walked along a stony corridor, lit gloomily by waning torches in rusty sconces attached to the dripping walls. Selena’s mind was racing.
I could tell Oakley that I don’t know anything
, she thought,
and stick to it—if I can—until he tires of me. Or I can hold out as long as possible, and then confess that Washington plans to attack New
York…Oh, God, Royce, where are you? Think of something, Selena. Think of something to distract your body when the pain begins. Yes, think of Royce, of holding him again…

Oakley’s accusation that Royce was nothing but an opportunist niggled at the back of her mind. The lieutenant was deucedly clever. He knew how to attack the very foundation of personal assurance, which is faith. Strength may come from faith in a god, an idea, a nation, or a person. But when one is alone and endangered, thoughts for the safety of one’s special being have a way of usurping noble causes one reveres in safer times.

Coldstream!
The thought of her home came to her in a flash.
Yes, Coldstream Castle. Think of it, of its gardens and its magnificent courtyard, of its chapel and library and towers and mighty walls. The rightful heir to Coldstream shall not yield!
vowed Selena.
And even if I die my spirit will return there
.

But how much better to return alive!

Her spirit flagged, however, when, with a gulp, Corporal Bonwit reached up and twisted a sconce on the wall. Great stones slid soundlessly aside, revealing a door that opened into a chamber Selena could not have conjured in her darkest dreams. She exhaled in terror as he shoved her inside, and knew, as the stones slid back into place behind them, why this horrible cavern was called as it was.

The Room of Doom was half-cave, half-grotto. Chains and iron manacles were embedded in one wall. Clubs and whips, pincers and tongs of all sizes hung from pegs on another. Thick ropes dangled from the high, curved stone ceiling. A squat wooden chair and a long, odd wooden table, both equipped with strange pulleys, gears, and levers, caught Selena’s eye. A coal fire burned in a grate at the far end of the chamber, the coals being stirred with a red-hot poker by a hooded figure who rose slowly and turned toward the two arrivals.

“Bonwit, ye dolt!” growled the hooded man, glaring at the corporal through eye slits in the ghastly shroud. “Ye forgot the bloody blindfold.”

The corporal babbled apologies. “Lieutenant Oakley’ll be jinin’ us at any moment,” he stammered.

The man seemed to nod—because of the hood it was difficult to tell—and stalked toward Selena. He thrust the fiery poker toward her face and she leaned away.

“What have ye done t’ bring yuhself here?” he asked without rancor, without, indeed, any feeling except possibly a professional interest.

“Nothing. I—”

“Save yuh breath. Ye all say the same thing. I’ve heard it all before. Did Lieutenant Oakley say what he wants t’ use on her?” he asked Bonwit.

“N-no…” managed the Yorkshireman.

The hooded man regarded Selena studiously through the slits in his hood, as if she were a piece of stone to be examined before sculpting.

“Pretty,” he said. “Y’ poor thing. Tell ye what. ’Tis out of me ’ands what Oakley chooses fer ye, but I’ll hoist ye fer the lash, an’ maybe he’ll let us get away with it for a time. There’s other things far worse. Ye’re not made for pain, an’ I’ll try not t’ hit ye too hard. But ye better confess whatever it is ’e wants t’ know, or things’ll be out of my control.”

Before Selena could respond, or even consider the strange nature of what this hooded figure probably thought to be charity, he had dropped the poker, thrown a loop of rope around her wrists, tossed the other end of the rope over a wooden beam, and pulled her up so that her toes barely touched the floor. The muscles in her legs, strained from standing so long in front of Oakley’s desk, began to ache even more. Very quickly, her stretched arms started to hurt as well.

“Please, just lower me a little bit.”

“Best I kin do, lassie. An’ don’t say that when Oakley comes. ’E’ll make me raise you in the air.”

Gulping, Bonwit sought parchment and quill. The hooded torturer selected a whip as if he were examining and discarding apples. It took every ounce of Selena’s strength to maintain even a shred of courage.

Then Lieutenant Oakley entered, walking heavily and breathing into his scented silk handkerchief. He looked disappointed when he saw her drawn up.

The hooded man swished the whip a time or two and bowed obsequiously. “All ready, sar,” he said, “as ye kin see.”

Oakley seemed to consider some of the other procedures he had mentioned in his office. “All right. Time is of the essence. Bonwit, write down everything I ask and everything she says.”

“Yes, sir!” quavered the corporal.

Oakley stepped in front of Selena. Their eyes were at a level. “You have brought this on yourself,” he said, as if pained. “Tell me, why did Royce Campbell journey all the way to Haiti?”

Royce. Coldstream. Royce. Coldstream
.

“I don’t know,” Selena said.

She saw Oakley nod to the hooded man, who was standing behind her. She sensed a shiver in the air as the whip was drawn back, and braced herself for the blow. A governess had switched her once with a willow branch for purloining a specially baked holiday plum pie, complete with brandy, rum, and exotic bananas. She had eaten several pounds of the masterpiece all by herself and, in order to hide the evidence, had fed the rest to her favorite pets: a rat terrier named Spike, Boris the brood sow, and a tame skunk called Mitzi. After that, plum pudding reminded her of pain, but even so the switching hadn’t hurt as much as the stomachache.

She knew this was going to be far, far worse.

“Wait,” said Oakley, whose bald head seemed to glow in the light of the coals from the hearth. “Tear away her dress.”

“No,” Selena pleaded.

“Are you prepared to answer my questions then?”

“I don’t know anything—”

She felt the rough hands of the hooded man at her collar.

Then the stone doorway slid open and a British soldier stepped into the room. He was excited, stumbling as he hastened toward Lieutenant Oakley who turned, somewhat irritably, toward the newcomer. “What is it?” Oakley demanded.

“Lieutenant, sir. Great news. We’ve just captured Erasmus Ward! The men are bringing him up from the water now.”

Selena recalled the little rowboat she’d seen in the harbor. Erasmus Ward. No wonder the soldier seemed so pleased. Ward, a shy, scrawny little man, had forsaken his silversmith’s trade to become the war’s most illustrious spy since Nathan Hale. Religiously devout, uncommonly brave, and gifted with an encyclopedic memory, Ward had made use of his small stature and pale unobtrusiveness to cross battle lines disguised as a peddler, to enter British encampments posing as a beggar, to deliver urgent communiques between Washington and Lafayette. His gift was that, although people saw him come and go, they did not
notice
him. It was
Ward who had lit the lanterns in Boston’s old North Church on the night of Paul Revere’s ride. It was Ward who had actually signed on as a cook and camp helper in the baggage train of British General “Gentleman Johnny” Burgoyne, thus providing Benedict Arnold with information concerning Burgoyne’s plans, ensuring a Colonial victory at Saratoga. Selena had caught a glimpse of Erasmus Ward just once, a legend out of the night, in the parlor of Gilbertus Penrod’s New York mansion. Most people thought Penrod, a dealer in gems, furs, and fabrics, was loyal to the crown. They would have changed their minds quickly had they seen Erasmus Ward, Royce Campbell, Alexander Hamilton, and the Comte de Vergennes in the Penrod drawing room.

While Selena’s heart plummeted at the news of Ward’s capture, Lieutenant Clay Oakley could not conceal his delight. “Are you certain it is he?” Oakley demanded of the soldier. “So many times we’ve thought him ours, but always he gets away.”

“No, sir. It’s Ward all right, and we have him in chains up above.”

Oakley thought things over for a moment, then looked at Selena. “I do not wish to be rude,” he told her, “but a more deserving guest has arrived to take your place. We must postpone our conversation for the time being. Bonwit,” he ordered the corporal, “cut Selena down and return her to her cell. You,” he commanded the soldier, “bring Ward here immediately.”

Selena felt the rope slacken. The muscles of her body began slowly to recover from the awful stretching. Her legs were numb. Needles and pins lanced through her arms as blood began to circulate again. Bonwit grabbed her shoulders and eased her toward the doorway.

“Do not forget, Selena,” Oakley called after her, “I am not finished with you yet.”

She did not turn to answer.

“Oh, Lord, oh, Lord,” exclaimed the corporal, as he led her away from the Room of Doom, “’tis a lucky star ye been born beneath, I vow.”

Selena was relieved for the moment, her immediate danger having receded, but she found no comfort in the situation. Because now another human being would suffer in her place, poor little Erasmus Ward, her confederate. And since Ward possessed so
much information that Oakley needed, the ugly lieutenant would spare no effort, show no mercy.

“We got t’ put on yuh blindfold,” Phineas Bonwit remembered, digging it out of his pocket. Selena had no choice but to obey, but before the rag was in place she saw Erasmus Ward himself, being dragged past her by a squad of eager redcoats. Ward was barefoot, shirtless, with irons around his wrists and ankles. The soldiers hadn’t bothered to blindfold him, so eager were they to get him to the interrogation chamber. Selena sent the little man a glance of recognition and sympathy as he was flung past her, and was startled to see not only that he seemed to know who she was, but also that his eyes were calm and clear. He seemed absolutely unafraid, as if he’d known all along that this dark day would finally come and that he was a match for it.

Around his neck, on a gold chain, was a small golden cross. Some pattern or design had been etched into the shining metal, but Selena could not see what it was.

Corporal Bonwit locked Selena into her damp, clammy cell, but lingered outside the iron-barred door. She sat down on her “bunk,” two planks nailed together and suspended from the wall by a couple of rusty chains.