Dark Torment Read Online Free PDF

rough-and-ready, Vickers.”
    “Aye, Cap’n.”
    The man called Vickers, a tall, husky, fair-haired fellow who
didn’t look as if he was yet out of his teens, saluted. Then, turning, he
bent to grasp the edge of a bucket that had been placed nearby. With one hand
on the bucket’s bottom and the other grasping its rim, he flung its
contents over the convict’s raw back. As the clear liquid splashed over
him, the convict stiffened convulsively, and a hoarse cry rose from his throat.
He tried to lever himself up off the deck, straightening his arms beneath him
so that his head and black-furred chest were clear of the wood by perhaps two
feet. His head jerked around; as he stared in their direction, features
contorted with pain, Sarah had her first glimpse of his face.
    Beneath the coating of grime, and whiskers, she saw that he was
fairly young, certainly no older than his mid-thirties. And once he was cleaned
up, she thought, he might be passably attractive. His features seemed regular
enough. His eyes met hers, and despite their glazing of pain she saw that they
were of a blue that was as clear and bright as the endless sky overhead. They
seemed far too beautiful to belong to a convicted criminal. Even as Sarah was
absorbing their impact, they closed. The sudden burst of pain-induced strength
seemed to vanish as quickly as it had come. Shuddering, he collapsed. Sarah
stared at that sprawled figure, and winced as Vickers emptied another bucket of
clear liquid over the convict’s back. This time the convict didn’t
even move.
    “What was in the bucket?” Sarah’s lips felt
stiff as she asked the question of her father. Now that she had seen his face,
and those beautiful eyes, the convict seemed almost as vulnerable as she was
herself. Which was ridiculous, she told herself sternly. He was only a convict,
after all. Everyone knew that if convicts had feelings, they were only of the
coarsest, roughest kind.
    “Brine water, ma’am,” Vickers answered.
    “Brine water!” Sarah could not restrain a shudder. No
wonder the poor creature had cried out. It must have burned his back like
liquid fire; the salt, seeping into the open wounds, must be burning still.
    “It’s standard treatment after a flogging,” her
father said in her ear. Sarah said nothing more, but she felt ill. She would
not use a wounded animal so, and she was fairly certain that her father would
not, either.
    “Captain, I would thank you to have a couple of your crew
carry the man down to my dray. He doesn’t look capable of making it on
his own.”
    Farley scowled, and for a moment Sarah thought he was going to
refuse. Then he shrugged. Sarah guessed that he was remembering the roll of
pound notes he had just pocketed. The same two sailors who had freed the
convict from the mast lifted him to his feet as Farley gave the order.
    “Come, Sarah.” Her father’s hand on her arm
tightened.
    “But his back—shouldn’t it be bandaged, at the
very least? The flies—and the dray will kick up dust. . . .”
    “We’ve no more time to waste on the likes of him.
Besides, open air is the best treatment for a wound like that. A bandage would
just stick to it.”
    There was truth to that, Sarah knew. But watching the flies swarm
around the convict’s torn flesh made her feel ill. If the wounds were
left open to every swarming insect and swirling particle of dust between here
and Lowella, there was every chance that they would putrefy. And that mode of
dying would be even more hideous than being beaten to death. But her father
clearly was impatient to be on his way. Nothing would be gained by making
another scene, Sarah realized. Besides, she didn’t have any bandages with
her.
    She allowed her father to lead her through the crowd of men,
already parted to permit the two sailors to pass with their burden. The
convict’s arms were around their shoulders; each sailor gripped him with
one hand fastened around