by Nan Ryan
Ladd didn’t bother disagreeing. He had insulted no one and LaKid knew it. LaKid was constantly trumping up bogus charges against Ladd in order to torture him. This time, like all the others, Ladd resolutely followed the stocky guard out of the room while his friends Andrew and Duncan shook their heads, knowing that he was in for it again. They were puzzled that Dasheroon and a few others were regularly singled out for punishment for no apparent reason.
All of the prisoners were aware, however, that the officers and men of the regiment guarding them were spiteful devils—there was nothing too mean or low or insulting for them to say and do. The fearful prisoners were surrounded by bayonets and artillery, guarded by soldiers who cursed, swore and fired among them when they pleased. And it was whispered that on occasion those guards, specifically LaKid, had resorted to ball, chains and dungeons for the slightest offense.
All eyes clung to Ladd’s thin frame as he walked out of the room as if he were off on a Sunday stroll, his back as straight as the proudest West Point cadet. Outside, it was bitterly cold and Ladd wore only a tattered cotton shirt and a pair of cotton trousers. No shoes. No underwear. His teeth began to chatter as he was flanked by two more prison guards and marched across the muddy quadrangle beneath a gray, leaden sky.
Forty yards from the prison’s main building, he was ordered to halt directly beneath a crossbar.
“Raise your arms, Reb,” commanded the grinning LaKid. Ladd obeyed. “Now stretch up onto your tiptoes and reach as high as you can,” ordered LaKid. Again Ladd complied.
He was then suspended by his thumbs and left dangling there for several hours in the freezing December weather. It was dark when he was finally let down and dragged back inside, fully conscious but sick from the cold. Ladd’s friends were seated close to the door, anxiously watching and waiting for Ladd’s return. When LaKid shoved Ladd inside, Andrew and Duncan shot to their feet and went to the fallen man.
“Oh, God,” Andrew said, gathering the faint, freezing Ladd against him, “they’re trying to kill you, the bastards.”
Ladd attempted a smile. “Well, it won’t work,” he said, shivering. “I’d never give them the satisfaction.”
Duncan wrapped his threadbare blanket around Ladd’s thin shoulders, and asked, “What did they do to you this time?”
“Nothing much,” Ladd replied, but his worried friends saw his bloodied thumbs and knew. Everyone at Devil’s Castle had heard of the various forms of punishment, including that of suspending a prisoner by his thumbs.
Some, it was said, were left dangling until their thumbs burst and they fell to the ground.
Ladd’s thumbs were just about healed when LaKid came for him again. This time he was bucked and gagged.
Ladd was ordered to sit down on the cold, muddy ground. A stick was tied across his open mouth, his wrists were tied together and slipped over his drawn-up knees. Then, a longer stick was wedged beneath his knees and across his forearms. He was left to sit in that position for eight long hours while a chilly January rain fell down upon him.
When LaKid and his minions, laughing and enjoying themselves, came to untie Ladd, they expected to find a fearful, beaten man. The chuckling LaKid took the stick from Ladd’s split lips and, seeing Ladd’s wet face and rain-clumped lashes, teased, “What have we here? You crying for your mommy?”
“Kiss my skinny Confederate ass!” said Ladd and spat in the big man’s ugly face.
Infuriated, LaKid instantly struck Ladd with the butt of his rifle. Blood splattered. Pain exploded inside Ladd’s head. He hardly felt it. He did not regret his impulsive action. It had been worth it. He had wanted to spit in Gilbert LaKid’s repulsive face since his days at West Point and, now that he had nothing more to lose, he had done it.
“Take this piece of Southern white trash inside and see to it he gets no supper tonight!”
The next time Ladd was escorted outside by the guards, he was introduced to yet another ingenious form of punishment called “on the chines.” He was forced to stand and balance himself on the top edges of a flour barrel—which had the head knocked out—for a long period of time.
And he had on no shoes.
While straddling the barrel, he was handed a heavy log to cradle in his arms. If he refused to take the log, or if he later dropped it, he was to be immediately shot by the guards.
Ladd prayed to the Almighty to give him strength as the soles of his bare feet became red and raw and his arms grew so weak they began shaking. He told himself repeatedly that he could do it, that they couldn’t best him. He had too much to live for. This war would end one day and he’d go home. Home to his sweet Laurette. So he’d be damned if he would die here in this pesthole surrounded by a bunch of laughing Yankee animals.
Ladd wet his lips, called on all his reserves of fortitude and began to whistle a snappy tune as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Frustrated and determined to break him, the Captain of the Guards stepped up Ladd’s torture. Almost every day Ladd was called on to withstand some form of punishment. More than once he was handcuffed to a high pole and flogged, given as many as one hundred lashes at a time. He was secured in heavy balls and chains. He was bolted to the walls or floors. Nothing seemed to work.
Then, finally, LaKid had an inspiration.
As excited as a child at Christmas, LaKid had his guards herd all the prisoners outdoors into the bitter cold and raw February winds. Warned that they would be shot should they try to escape, the shivering men stood gathered around a small fire that had been built in a stone pit at the center of the prison yard.
Ladd, like his fellow prisoners, had no idea what the fire was for or what was going to happen.
Not even when his name was called.
Ladd exchanged glances with Andrew and Duncan.
“Hell, let’s make a run for it,” whispered Andrew.
“No,” said Ladd, “they’d kill us all, there’s a Gat-ling atop the south wall.”
Ladd took a deep breath and began making his way through the crowd. When he reached the opening where a dozen guards stood around the fire in a semicircle, rifles at the ready, he walked directly up to Gilbert LaKid and said, “So what’s it to be today? Burned at the stake?”
The Captain of the Guards laughed heartily and replied, “Not a bad idea, Reb, but in case you’ve failed to notice, we are civilized here at Devil’s Castle.”
Grinning, he ordered Ladd to turn with his back to the prisoners, drop his tattered trousers, bend over and grip his knees.
“No, I don’t think I’ll do that,” Ladd stated calmly as he crossed his arms over his chest and flashed the guard a grin.
LaKid jerked his head in a silent command and two guards swiftly stepped forward, turned Ladd about and roughly stripped his tattered trousers down. Then they trussed him with strong ropes, shoved on his back and, bending him over, exposed his bare buttocks to the cold February air.
The prisoners watched in rising horror. A guard reached into the fire pit and handed Gilbert LaKid a glowing hot branding iron. Enjoying the prisoners’ fear and apprehension, LaKid thrust it back into the pit of the fire.
He held it there for several heartbeats.
Then with great relish LaKid withdrew the glowing, white-hot iron and pressed it to the bony left buttock of Ladd Dasheroon. Ladd clenched his teeth and tried very hard not to make a sound.
He failed.
With smoke from the wound choking him and the stench of his own searing flesh strong in his nostrils, he emitted a strangled sound of distress. The heat of the sizzling imprint swiftly spread throughout his thin frame. He was instantly hot all over, in pain and burning from head to toe.
Victorious, Gilbert LaKid gave a great shout of triumph as Ladd sank weakly to his knees and slumped, chin on chest. The conquering Captain of the Guards lifted a heavy booted foot and viciously kicked the bound, kneeling prisoner. Ladd crumpled like a rag doll and fell over onto his face.
He made no attempt to move.
Fourteen
In the middle of a cold February night in 1864, Laurette awakened with a strangled cry. She bolted up in bed, trembling, her heart pounding. She’d had a terrible nightmare—one that had been so incredibly real, it had left her distraught, terrified.
She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly, attempting to stop the violent shaking of her body. Her breath came in shallow, choking gasps and she felt as if she were suffocating. She told herself it had only been a dream, a very bad dream.
The dream had started out so pleasant, so very sweet. It was summertime and there was no such thing as a war and she and Ladd were together down at the river landing. They were strolling along the levee, hand in hand, watching the large cumulus clouds building out over the gulf.
The bright sun was shining on the river and the clouds seemed to glow from within. A flock of gulls swooped low, whooping and giving their shrieking cries, then circled and winged out toward open waters.
It was midsummer thunderstorm season and just like clockwork, at three in the afternoon, the sun disappeared. Minutes later, the first huge raindrops began to fall. She and Ladd laughed and ran for cover.
And magically, as often happens in dreams, they found themselves no longer in downtown Mobile on the riverfront, but across the bay on the eastern shore in the Dasheroons’ empty bayside cottage.
They were on the thatch-covered veranda of the secluded cottage, watching the storm build over the bay, inhaling deeply of the clean scent of rain. Thunder rumbled and lightning streaked across the darkening sky.
Wordlessly they turned to each other. They kissed and undressed right there on the rain-peppered veranda. Naked they stood embracing, the wind-driven rain wetting their feverish bodies and pressing their hair to their heads.
Kissing and clinging to each other, they sank weakly to their knees, excited, aroused. When Ladd’s gleaming lips finally left Laurette’s, he asked, “Do you want to go inside, to the bed?”
“No,” she decisively replied, tightening her arms around his neck, “Love me right here in the rain.”
And so he did.
While the violent thunderstorm intensified and the rain came down in torrents they made love, unworried that they might be seen. Their privacy was assured by the blinding sheets of rain as well as the thick, tropical growth of oleander, oak leaf hydrangea, mimosa, banana trees and tall sago palms that surrounded the cliffside cottage.
Their bodies wet with rain, they slipped and slid sensuously against each other and Laurette could feel Ladd filling her, stretching her, making her his own. They moved together with near perfect precision. Giving to the other and taking for themselves. They were learning more about lovemaking every time they were together.
Lost in the building pleasure, Laurette gazed at Ladd’s handsome face just above hers, taut with passion. His sculpted shoulders were wide, his arms—the arms that held her—were muscled and strong. His body was lean, toned, beautiful. He was young and virile and possessed plenty of potent strength to love her as often and as long as she wanted.
And then—all at once—as he thrust into her with the kind of seeking force that gave her incredible ecstasy, he began to change before her frightened eyes. His deep tan quickly faded to a sickly pallor. His wide, muscled shoulders became painfully thin and bony beneath her hands. He sagged wearily against her and the hard masculine flesh that was buried deep inside her became limp and lifeless.
“I’m no use to you anymore,” he lamented, his gaunt, hollow-cheeked face moving away. “They’re killing me, Lollie. I’m dying.”
“Who?” she had screamed, struggling to hold on to him. “What is happening, Ladd?”
But he was already leaving her, floating away, his sallow face becoming a grotesque mask.
“Ladd! Ladd!” she sobbed and awakened with a start, weeping.
Now, as she sat in the chill February darkness, Laurette was overcome with fear that the ghastly nightmare held meaning. Was something terrible happening to Ladd? Was he suffering? Was he dead or dying? She hadn’t heard from him in over a year, had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive. She lived in agony, fearing the worst, expecting to hear that he had been killed in battle.
Tears stinging her eyes, Laurette exhaled, lay back down and covered herself, wondering how much more she could endure. Her safe, happy, wonderful life had come crashing down around her ears and nothing would ever be the same again. Her beloved father had been killed at Gettysburg and her mother had died the following winter.
Alone now in the big, silent mansion that was once filled with life and laughter, Laurette wept for all that was forever lost. And in the cold, lonely darkness, she murmured aloud, “Ladd, please don’t leave me. Wherever you are, you must keep fighting to stay alive. Please, my darling, stay alive and come home to me.”
Ladd, wanting nothing more than to go home to Laurette, was doing his best to stay alive. But the misery, the hunger, the beatings, the branding and the other forms of endless torture were slowly taking their toll. His spirits were sagging, he was growing weary of the battle, losing heart. His friends, Andrew and Duncan, were worried about him. He wasn’t himself. His fighting spirit was waning away.
Just as Ladd was at his lowest point, news that the Devil’s Castle commandant was being replaced traveled through the prisoner community. Major Jimmy Tigart, severely wounded in battle, was being sent to take over the top position at the prison.
When Ladd heard about Jimmy, he was elated—his weariness evaporated and he was filled with relief and hope. His days of enduring torture were over! Jimmy would help him, makes things bearable. He would control LaKid and his cruelty. And, he felt certain that Jimmy would see to it that his, Ladd’s, name went to the top of the prisoner exchange list. With any luck he would soon be leaving Devil’s Castle!
Ladd awakened early on the day Jimmy was to take command. He looked down at his tattered clothes and groaned. He hated for his old childhood friend to see him so thin and unkempt, but there was nothing he could do.
Beside himself with excitement, Ladd waited anxiously for Jimmy’s arrival. He purposely positioned himself near the common room’s front doors, so that Jimmy would be sure to see him. Finally, at five minutes past noon, the heavy prison doors swung open and Ladd leaped to his feet.
A quartet of armed guards stepped inside. Directly behind them was the crisply uniformed Major Jimmy Tigart. Ladd immediately noticed that Jimmy had a limp, was using a cane to aid in his walking. Other than that, he seemed to be healthy and he sure looked good to Ladd. Major Tigart glanced around, caught sight of the smiling Ladd and his eyes widened with surprise. Ladd realized then that Jimmy had had no idea he was a prisoner at Devil’s Castle.
Ladd waited impatiently while Major Tigart, leaning on his cane for support, stood a few feet from the doorway and made a brief speech to the prisoners. When the speech was ended, Major Tigart turned to Ladd and greeted him warmly.
“Walk outside with me,” he said to Ladd, “where we can talk.”
Waving the guards away, Major Tigart led Ladd across the prison grounds to the command building where his office and quarters were located. On the building’s wide stone porch, the two men stopped, looked at each other and embraced. Each was full of questions. Neither had many answers. Jimmy told Ladd how the war was progressing. Then he asked about Laurette.
“We are not allowed to receive letters here,” said Ladd. “We get no news of any kind. You’ve heard nothing from her?”
Tigart shook his head. The two talked and talked, Ladd confiding in Jimmy, telling him of the torture he had endured. Jimmy listened intently and assured Ladd that everything would be better now.
“And you’ll put my name on the prisoner exchange list?” asked Ladd.
“At the very top. You know I will,” Jimmy said. “Now you’d better go back to your quarters. But don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.”
“Soon?” said Ladd.
Jimmy flashed him a smile. “Consider it done.”
Major Tigart stood on the stone porch in the strong March sunlight, silently watching his pitiful, cadaverously thin friend cross the prison yard. Incredibly, there was a spring to Ladd’s step.
Poor devil.
Tigart went inside the command building, walked into his office, circled the desk and sat down. He propped his cane against the wall behind him, turned, put his elbows on the desk and rested his face in his hands.
He sat silently staring into space, thinking, wrestling with his conscience. His first impulse was to have Ladd immediately executed. It would be simple enough. He could easily have Ladd charged with a crime for which he would pay with his life. Or, better still, he could spread the word that he and Ladd had been boyhood friends. Then invite Ladd to dinner in his private quarters. And, at the end of the evening, report that the sickly prisoner had died.
Tigart raised his head and exhaled wearily. He couldn’t do it. Much as he wanted Ladd dead, he couldn’t bring himself to kill Ladd. But he could allow him to die.
“Captain of the Guards,” Major Tigart called out after several long minutes.
Gilbert LaKid, nervous, worried about his own precious hide, immediately stepped inside the new commandant’s office, expecting to be soundly reprimanded for past excesses.
Major Tigart leaned back in his chair and casually asked, “Does Devil’s Castle have any dungeons?”
That was the last question LaKid had expected to hear from the new commandant and it frightened him. He knew that Major Tigart was an old friend of Ladd Dasheroon. LaKid’s apprehension grew. He began to perspire.
“Yes, sir,” said LaKid, reluctantly, “the dark cells. There are four underneath the main building.”
