Through Darkest America

then he caught the tail-end of a command, or a traded insult. When his foot hurt too much to stand on anymore he limped back to his corner and curled up on the hard floor.

Sleep didn’t come easily. His foot throbbed something awful. It ought to be getting better, but it wasn’t. It was hot to the touch, now, and pounding all by itself, like a small heart. The pain was starting to move right up the back of his leg, past the ankle, and he didn’t like that at all. The poison from a bad wound, if it wasn’t clean, could go right up through your body. You could lose your whole leg before you knew it. Unless he got some help, that might just hap-pen. Only, where the hell was he going to get any help in here?

On the edge of pain he wondered how the battle would turn out and whether the Rebels would take the city or not. If they did, then what? Suppose they swept the Loyalists clear out of the west, and then pushed them all the way back east, too, and took over the government?

To keep his mind off the pain, he tried to list in his head what was good and bad about both sides. He sure couldn’t think of much difference. One was about as bad as the other. He’d heard Lathan wanted to make things better for folks, but that didn’t mean anything—just saying it. As near as he could see, it was Lathan he wanted to better.

Things hadn’t been too bad, really, before anyone had even heard of Lathan. Most people had enough to eat and clothes on their backs. And the government had been trying to do things. Why, if there hadn’t been a war, they might’ve even gotten to where farmers and ranchers could get horses. When would that happen, now? No matter who won, horses were going to be scarcer than ever.

He hurt too much to keep up with the list. It didn’t make sense, anyway. All he could figure for sure was that people had been better off when there wasn’t any fighting going on. And you had to say one thing about the government; they wanted to do things for the country. You couldn’t forget there was still Silver Island. And that was something. Maybe it was even one thing worth fighting to keep. As long as you had something like that, you had the hope of something better, anyway.

Whatever happened, he couldn’t forget that. Even thinking about what the government was doing to him right now. Hell, the Rebels would have done the same. And they didn’t have any Silver Island for folks to go to, either. It was, truly, the only thing he could think of that was really right with the world. He thanked the Lord that Carolee was there and didn’t even have to know anything about this.

He dozed, finally, thinking about her. Only he saw her now like he remembered her, on a warm, lazy day floating down the canal on the way to the fair at Bluevale. It was a good thing to think about, and for a while his foot didn’t hurt anymore.

Pain brought him up again in the bleak, dull hour of dawn. His eyes were pasted together and his throat was dry. He couldn’t stand the smell of himself. He tried to recall when he’d had a bath in clean, hot water.

There was food again, and a jug of water. He wolfed down the cold bread and meat, and saved most of the water. His foot was worse than ever. The skin was red and swollen and hurt just to touch. He couldn’t stand on it at all without near passing out from the pain. Crawling over to the window, he pulled himself up and ran his fingers over the surface of each of the thick wooden bars. They were smooth and slick with age, and there was nothing rough enough to pull loose. For an hour he dug his fingernails into one tiny split in the wood, standing on one foot and prying at the spot until his hands bled. When the piece finally came free it was no more than a splinter, but it would have to do.

He crawled back to the wall, exhausted, clutching his prize. There was no use putting it off, he decided. It wasn’t going to get any easier. Using a little of the water, he cleaned off the top of the ugly wound as best he could, wincing at his own easy touch. Lordee, if it hurt that much just to gentle the thing…

He knew what was coming, so he stuffed his shirt in his mouth and bit down hard. Then he dug the sharp splinter right in the middle of the fester. He swallowed the pain and ground his teeth into the cloth. Sweat stung his eyes and red and black suns swam before his vision. The ugly yellow poison poured out of the wound and he forced it through the angry red skin until no more would come. Then he washed the whole area clean with the rest of his water and bandaged it as well as he could with a strip from his shirt. When he was finished, he was drained clear down to the bone. His hands trembled and he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.

Patrols headed out from the city in the afternoon, but they didn’t get far. There were more Rebel cookfires on the horizon than a man could count.

In midafternoon, with the sun behind them, the Rebels attacked in force. They swarmed down on the city like a river in flood, until there was no bare ground beneath them. They shouted as they came, one mighty voice that swept all sound before them.

In the vanguard was the cavalry with green banners flying and hooves sending thunder over the city. There were more mounts before the wall that day than any man alive had ever seen. Behind them came the foot soldiers armed with swords, clubs, long ugly pikes, and every weapon imaginable. The Loyalists poured over the walls to meet them. When the two armies met, the din and cry was a terrible thing to hear. Howie watched, his foot forgotten for the moment. Nothing could match the pain before his eyes. He felt strangely uneasy, seeing the battle and having no part in it. Men were fighting and dying a few hundred yards away, while he stood at his window and watched. Somehow, it didn’t seem right. You ought to be able to die without people watching.

For a while, the rumor spread about the city that Lathan himself was there, leading his army. But no one could say whether or not this was so.

Just before sundown the Rebels withdrew, and, less than an hour after that, attacked another side of the city. The battle there raged for nearly an hour. Then the Rebels withdrew to their camps, now bright with nightfires. No one cheered their retreat; everyone knew they had broken off the fight of their own will. The two terrible battles had been little more than probing actions to test the strength of the Loyalists. They would be back again, and soon.

Howie wished Kari would come to see him again. He hated to admit it, but it was so. There was no way to forget what she did to him. He knew what would happen if she came. She’d start talking nonsense again and he’d get mad and blow his stack. But he wanted her there, anyway.

His foot didn’t feel so bad now and he could rest a little. He tried to stay awake, though, thinking she might come. She hadn’t come until late, last time. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a little like himself again. Like he could sit back and think, maybe—without worrying whether Pardo was going to get him into something where he’d get killed; or Klu or Jigger or someone would put a blade in his ribs just for fun.

He laughed softly at his thoughts. It was sure a funny time to get feeling good, locked up with his foot all swollen and hungry and thirsty half the time. All that would pass, though. A couple of good meals and a week or two off his feet would take care of those problems. He wasn’t really too worried about Lewis anymore. Kari wouldn’t make up something like that, crazy as she was. Lewis could torture him some more, or kill him—but what’d be the point?

Lewis and everyone else had plenty on their hands right now. He didn’t think they’d be worrying over one prisoner who couldn’t help or harm them, one way or the other.

And if the Rebels broke through… He’d given some thought to that. When it happened—and he figured it would—he sure didn’t intend waiting for an invitation to get away. Just how he’d bring that off he couldn’t say. But there’d be a chance. And he’d take it.

And after that? He wouldn’t even let himself think about it. He wasn’t even sure he knew how. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d just done whatever he liked, or gone wherever he wanted to—without someone saying what he had to do.

When they came for him it was in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t even know they were there until they’d jerked him up off the floor and set him on his feet. The first jolt of pain shot all the way up his leg and set him howling. He tried to pull away and tell them he couldn’t walk; that it was all a big mistake, but they wouldn’t listen. When he fell they just picked him up and started him off again. Or gave him a quick boot in the ribs to show they meant business. He couldn’t go down the stairs so they dragged him most of the way; the bad foot hitting every step until it hit so many he couldn’t feel it any more.

Before they strapped him in the big oak chair they stripped him naked, not bothering to look for buttons, just ripping and tearing until everything was gone. There were two big logs this time and they strapped his ankles to both of them, stretching his legs wide and leaving a big open space in between. His senses were near drowning in