Matthew didn’t want to hear this.
“Obedient too,” Walter went on. “Don’t you agree, Philip?”
“Not to begin with, but she quickly learnt to spread her legs when we told her to. Spread them and bare herself.”
Matthew groaned with frustrated anger. “Scum!” he spat through his swelling lip.
Philip ignored him, flicking the tip of the whip at Matthew’s balls. “So many ways to hurt, Graham.”
The bloodied leather left a trail behind it down Matthew’s inner thigh. Matthew was beginning to tremble: long, uncontrollable tremors that began in his cramping calves and rippled up his bloodied back.
“I should have taken them with us,” Philip said to Walter, “the wife and daughter. That way he could have watched.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed with hate. “You won’t touch them!”
“And how do you aim to stop us? Once we’ve sold you, we’ll just go back. That daughter of yours…and your wife isn’t bad-looking for all that she’s old.” Walter weighed Matthew’s balls, laughing when Matthew shrank from his invasive touch.
“No!” Matthew gasped when Walter tightened his hand round his cock. “No, damn you! You won’t touch Alex, you hear? Never will you touch Alex!”
“Maybe we will, maybe we won’t,” Walter said, and there was a gleam to his eyes, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. “But you, on the other hand…”
What? No! A hand twisted into his balls, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.
“Yes,” Walter said, “you we’ll have – even if mostly I prefer my men young – very young.”
The sudden release of the rope sent Matthew sprawling to the ground, and there were hands on him, forcing him up on his knees. He fought like a maddened bull, he roared, kicked and tried to tear himself free, but a man pushed his face into the ground, another lifted his arse into the air and then… He screamed into the grass, shrieked in agony and shame.
“Your turn,” Philip said to Walter. This time, Matthew didn’t even try.
It was over. Matthew slid down to lie on his front.
“Dominic Jones once told me how he made you crawl in the dust for him.” Philip’s voice was very close. “He said how you had once told him that, yes, you were a slave, not a man, a slave. Do you remember?”
Matthew attempted to nod.
“And now you’re a slave once more, and not only a slave but a catamite.”
Matthew shook his head: no, he wasn’t a slave, no, not at all. He heard the Burley brothers laugh in chorus, a toe prodded him in the side, and they moved away. He lay very still. In his mouth was the taste of blood, in the air hung the scent of his blood, and when he looked at his hand, it was smeared with blood. But worst of all was the wet seeping from his anus, the damp running down between his legs.
*
“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” Alex’s teeth were chattering with the effort of not throwing up after witnessing this total humiliation of her man. “I must…he needs me…” She began to stand up from where they were hidden behind a copse of maple saplings.
“No!” Sarah hissed, clamping down on Alex. “They are too many. The moment they see us they’ll kill him, and us they’ll—” She whimpered, hands clutching at Alex. “Oh Lord, they’ll—”
“They’re hurting him!” Alex gasped, trying to prise off her fingers. “I must help him!”
“You can’t help him!” Sarah whispered, her breath hot in Alex’s ear. “Not yet, Mama.” She was crying, her cheeks wet with tears, her breathing loud and irregular. Alex wrapped her arms around Sarah and rocked her, not quite sure if it was her comforting Sarah, or if it was Sarah’s warm presence that was comforting her.
“They raped him,” Alex moaned once Sarah had calmed down.
“That he will survive,” Sarah said in a flat voice.
Alex looked at her for a long time.
“Yes.” She took her daughter’s hand in her own. “That he will.”
Alex clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from uttering a sound when the Burleys moved back to where Matthew was lying curled on the ground.
“Don’t look,” Sarah suggested.
“I have to, that’s the least I can do.” And so she watched him being forced to his knees, saw him reel with slaps and punches, heard his muted yelps. She hated to see his nudity so displayed before men who were looking him over as if he were an animal. Philip laughed, calling Matthew a slave, and Matthew shook his head. That made Philip laugh again. He beckoned Walter forward, said something in a low voice, and Walter nodded, hurrying over to the fire. Minutes passed, and then Walter came back, brandishing what Alex thought to be a long stick – until Matthew shrieked in pain when the red-hot branding iron was pressed against his bare buttock, filling the woods with the stench of burning flesh.
Alex retched. Sarah was trembling, her arm tight around Daffodil’s neck, and in the glade before them, Matthew crawled on the ground while the Burleys laughed and laughed.
*
He was back on his feet, the halter tight around his neck, his hands tied in front of him. He was shaking with shock and pain, and it was almost impossible to move, but move he did. His whole body screeched in protest, begging him to lie down, to rest. But he couldn’t do that, because then they’d… What more could they do, he tried, and his guts shrivelled as he realised just how much more was left for them to do. Branded like a beast! And, dearest Lord, his arse…no, best not think about his arse. Just keep on moving, run or they will hurt you.
His mouth filled with the metallic taste of his own blood, his heart thundered with effort, and still they rode on, jeering when he fell, laughing when he gasped as his naked skin was dragged through thickets and rocks. All of him was bleeding, and in the heavy heat he was plagued by a cloud of gnats, attracted by the scent of his blood, of the filth that streaked his legs. Once again, he fell, and they rode on, dragging him like a carcass behind them until he somehow struggled back on his feet. He didn’t think of anything but putting one foot before the other, of running as well as he could with the rope that chafed at his throat. Somewhere in his subconscious a little glimmer of hope lived. He was still alive, and he had other sons to follow his tracks. So he stumbled and fell on purpose, he crashed into bushes and shrubs, leaving a blazing trail behind him.
They made camp for the night in a small, rock-strewn clearing. Matthew collapsed into a heap, his tongue thick in a mouth so parched there was nothing to swallow. One of the men set down a bucket before him, and he drank, gulping loudly. A jerk on the rope, and he was pulled back, tied to a tree, and he concentrated on breathing. Air in, air out, air in, air out…
It took an eternity for his pulse to drop back to normal. In the dusk, he attempted to study the damage done to him. His back he couldn’t see, but his burn mark was a swollen, tender red, charred around the edges. His legs and feet were bruised, there were thorns in his soles that he carefully worked out and his whole face was one massive contusion, but other than that… He almost laughed. Aye, apart from being half-skinned, raped, burnt and beaten to a pulp, he was alright.
He shivered with cold, all of him trembled with delayed shock, and around him insects hovered, a constant buzzing blanket. He managed to loosen the noose, tried to rest against the tree but couldn’t on account of his back, falling forward to cradle his head in his arms instead. He dozed, and there was Alex, smiling at him in their parlour, and the firelight struck sparks off her hair making her look very young. She laughed at something he said, and he stretched in expectation when she stood to go to him. Just as she bent to kiss him, he woke, his skin aflame and the rope halter a circle of fire around his neck.
It was as dark as it ever got in May, the forest around him alive with sounds. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the pain that flew through them when he forced blood into them. He splayed them, imagining Alex slipping her fingers into his to braid them tight together. In his muddled state, he was suddenly convinced he saw her, there, on the other side o
f the glade, and a roaring pride surged through him that his woman would do such for him: follow him and his captors into the wilderness. But then he blinked and the apparition was gone, and here he was, tied like a dog with a collar round his neck.
He glanced over to where the campfire was dwindling down to a dull glow. If he could only get the noose off his neck then he could run. He heard a rustle in the bushes close by, and for a moment he was lit within by the flaring hope that it might be his sons, but the rustling subsided and he groaned in disappointment. But the noose… It took several minutes of working at the slipknot before he succeeded in loosening it sufficiently to pull the noose over his head. He got to his feet, his eyes locked on the sleeping shapes. A step, one more step, and then he hurtled off, but he had forgotten about the sentry, and a hand grabbed at him and brought him to a halt.
The sentry grunted when Matthew elbowed him in the gut. There were but a few yards between him and the forest when a blow to the back of his knees felled him to the ground. He was dragged back, Walter was screaming him in the ear, and here came Philip with a torch in one hand and his knife in the other.
“Hold this,” Philip said to one of his men, handing him the torch.
Matthew backed away from him, ignoring the searing pain in his buttock when he dragged it across the ground. Merciful Christ! He was going to be hurt again.
“Running away?” Philip bent down to look him in the eyes. “You know what happens to slaves that run away?”
Matthew shook his head. No, he didn’t, but he wasn’t a slave, was he?
“They are punished,” Philip hissed.
“Shoot me,” Matthew begged. “Just finish this, aye?”
“Shoot you? Now why would I do that? This is far more fun.” Philip’s hand closed on Matthew’s ankle. He nodded at his brother who stuffed a gag in Matthew’s mouth. Matthew kicked madly, he squirmed and rolled, straining against all the hands that were holding him down. Someone sat on him. The knife sank into his foot. Matthew bucked, he shrieked through his gag, his fingers clawed uselessly at the air. Philip held up a bloodied item, dangling it before Matthew’s eyes. A toe?
“You won’t run again,” Philip said, wiping his knife on the grass. “At least not tonight.”
Matthew was so overcome by this new source of pain that he barely noted when he was tied back up. He whimpered, tried to get at his foot, but his hands were tied behind his back this time, and the noose was pulled so tight any movement would throttle him. It was a struggle to fill his lungs; his pulse was racing from his severed toe to his heart and back again. He wanted to die.
*
Alex was too tired, too shocked, by the events of this long day to do more than register that Matthew had been badly hurt – yet again. That effectively killed Plan A, which had been to cut him loose and make a run for it. As there were no Plans B, C or otherwise, she had no idea what to do, sitting with Sarah only yards away from where Matthew drew long, wheezing breaths. After what seemed an eternity, the sentry moved off to guard the further perimeter of the camp, and Alex slunk like a cat towards her husband.
At first he didn’t react to her voice, her touch, keeping eyes firmly closed. But when she kissed his cheek, he opened one tear-encrusted eye, and a ghost of a smile flickered over his face.
“Alex.” It came out a hoarse croak – far too loud in the stillness of the night – and she gestured for him to be quiet, loosened the noose, and held a water skin to his mouth.
Sarah hissed from behind the tree, and Alex froze, sinking down with the blanket around her to resemble a lump in the ground, no more. Feet passed by uncomfortably close, there was the sound of someone urinating, and the familiar sound of Daffodil’s deep growl. Damn! She heard the man mutter, and without stopping to think, she threw herself towards the sound, Matthew’s sharp dirk in her hand.
There was another noise, a wet, gargling sound, and the man collapsed against her, sliding towards the ground. So much blood! Sarah whispered a curt quiet to the dog. Alex crouched beside the dead man, wiping her slick hands on his breeches, her skirt. Someone was stirring down by the fire: a shape sat up, looked about and lay back down again. Alex let out her pent-up breath in a long exhalation. She was back by Matthew’s side, a quick caress to his head, a promise that she’d be back for him, and then she scuttled off behind the tree where Sarah sat crouched with her face hidden against the flank of the dog.
“What do we do?” Sarah said. Dawn was coming, the dark already shifting into greys, and soon the men down by the fire would discern the boots of the killed sentry should they look this way.
“We hide him.” Alex moved towards the body. There was blood everywhere, an arterial spraying that had drenched not only the man’s shirt and coat but also the bushes around him. “God, how messy,” she whispered, her knees weakening at the enormity of having slashed her husband’s dirk through a stranger’s windpipe.
“Better than to shoot him,” Sarah murmured, and Alex giggled hysterically, muffling the sound in her shawl. They inched him further into the trees, and once they were out of sight, they lifted the man and carried him deeper into the woods.
“Here,” Alex said, indicating a deep crevice between some rocks. “May the snakes eat you,” she added, and now it was Sarah giggling hysterically.
“Snakes don’t eat men.”
“Too bad.” Alex grasped Sarah’s ice-cold hand in her own as they made their way back to the Burley camp, their dog and waiting muskets.
*
When Philip Burley shook his brother awake, Alex hunched deeper into her hiding place. Sarah was sitting well to the right of her, and now, when it was too late, Alex regretted not having done as Sarah suggested: sneak up on the bastards and kill them in their sleep. Except that Alex was a lousy shot, and Philip was anything but a deep sleeper, starting awake the two times they had tried to approach the fire. The last few hours he’d woken every other minute to sit up and scan his surroundings.
“Where’s Sammy?” Philip said.
“Down there.” Walter yawned, waving his hand in the direction they had come. Nope, he wasn’t.
Alex shifted on her feet.
“Find him,” Philip ordered. Walter grumbled, but did as he was told, ambling off towards where Sarah was hiding.
Alex glanced over to where Matthew was lying like a trussed chicken. He was shivering, and, in the returning light, it was all Alex could do not to weep at the sight of him. All of him was covered in bruises or welts, blood and filth streaked his skin, and, as to his foot, it looked as if it had been run through her meat grinder. But he was alive, and soon…
Her wishful thoughts were interrupted by a squawk. By the fire, Philip froze. To her right, Alex heard Walter laugh, and something cold settled in her stomach when she saw him drag Sarah into the open. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“It would seem she couldn’t get enough,” Walter said.
Sarah whirled. She did it again, and Walter flew through the air, landing in a welter of limbs. Philip was on his feet, yelling as he ran to help his brother. The kick to Walter’s abdomen made him scream. The second kick hit him squarely in the balls, and Alex was sure she heard something tear – serve him right, raping bastard. Walter howled, hands cupped round his genitals. Sarah swivelled on her toe and brought her foot down hard in Walter’s face. He flopped like a fish and lay still.
“I’ll kill you!” Philip yelled.
No, you won’t! Alex rose from her hiding place, musket aimed at Philip. He came to a halt. Daffodil chose this moment to growl, and Philip took a couple of steps backwards.
“Shoot! Shoot him, Mama!”
Alex very much wanted to, but couldn’t quite remember how, her finger incapable of closing around the trigger. Philip ran like a hare.
“Now!” Sarah yelled, groping in the bushes for her musket. Too late.
Philip sank down beside Matthew and rammed his pistol against Matthew’s head. “I’ll blow his brains out,” he threatened.
Alex had no doubt he meant it, and so Sarah stood with her musket aimed at Philip while Alex aimed at the remaining outlaw. At Sarah’s command, the dog lumbered over to watch over a feebly twitching Walter.
“An impasse, I believe,” Philip sneered. He cocked the gun. Sarah followed suit. The early morning was silent: no birdsong, no animal sounds, only the uneven breathing of four men and two women, and the heavy panting of a dog.
An ear-splitting war cry sliced through the air. Half-naked men strode into the clearing, and, from where he sat beside Matthew, Philip threw back his head and laughed.
“Iroquois!” he said triumphantly. “And now I have three slaves to sell.”
Chapter 38
Matthew was only vaguely aware of the events unfolding before him. He was burning with fever, and the severe physical strains of the previous day made it almost impossible to move – should he have been able to.
His split lip had dried and cracked overnight, and something seemed to be very wrong with his foot. He had only fragmented recollections of yesterday, and as to the events of the night, he was no longer sure if they had been real or merely a dream. He had to piss, badly he had to piss, but he had no intention of reducing himself to wetting his own resting place, and so he tried to wave the urgent need away by thinking of other things: like why Walter Burley was lying like a dead frog on the ground several yards away, and why there was a muzzle uncomfortably close to his ear.
He felt Philip relax, more in that the muzzle no longer ground into his head, but pointed to the ground. He heard him laugh and call out something in a tongue he assumed to be an Indian language. The rocky hollow was swarming with people, men in breech cloths and moccasins, their faces painted into anonymous grimness. Too late, his sons would come too late, and now it wasn’t only him, but Alex and Sarah as well, both of them being herded forward by the Indians behind them. Someone helped him to stand, and when he swayed, hands held him steady. He was pathetically grateful of the support because his foot was throbbing with pain.
He tried to concentrate on what was being said, but the language was unfamiliar to him, and so instead he tried to locate his wife again. There, sitting on the ground with her head hidden in her hands, her shoulders shaking, and he stumbled towards her, only to be brought up short by Philip’s pistol in his gut.
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 31