CHAPTER XL
A ROOM OF TORTURE
Phil was awakened in the morning by the creaking of his prison door, and opened his eyes to behold the jailer of his midnight imprisonment advancing toward him. He observed now, as he had not noticed when he first saw him, that this fellow wore a military uniform.
With a few words in German and expressive movements of his hands, the jailer indicated to the boy an order to come with him, and the prisoner obeyed. Up the stairs they went and into a very strange room occupied by that very strange man, “Count Topoff.” Strewn about in the apartment were a dozen or more remarkable contrivances, a few of which indicated the probable general character of all of them. One was plainly a pillory with holes for the head and the hands, but within the hand holes projected many sharp metal points, while on the stand for the undoubtedly barefooted pilloried victim were a hundred or more sharp metal points projecting upwards. There were also hanging on the wall numerous straps and belts, some of them crossed and riveted here and there until they bore the appearance of elaborate body-brace or harness, while from various ends hung numerous sharp-toothed jaw-clasps. Overhead, suspended on a pulley by a long rope, was what appeared to be a head harness. The other end of the rope was caught around a cleat over against the wall.
Phil shuddered at the sight. Here was cruelty apparatus of the most fiendish ingenuity. And there could be no doubt that it was intended to be used and that “Count Topoff” was the very fellow to use it with frigid glee.
The prisoner was aroused from his secretly shrinking contemplation of the prospect before him by the voice of “the count,” who addressed him in English, thus:
“You see, most foolish American, what is in store for you unless you give me a true explanation of what took place this side of Chateau Thierry. Now, I’ll give you one more chance before the course of persuasion begins. By telling me the truth, you can escape all that you see before you.”
His voice was more repulsive than it had been at any time before in Phil’s hearing. The high-pitched, tripping near-stutter, if the speaker had spoken from a position of concealment, might have caused any hearer to suspect that the utterances popped forth from the lips of a bully of imp-land.
“But,” Phil protested, hopelessly, it is true, “I have already told you the truth. You surely don’t want me to fabricate a yarn just to escape your cruelty.”
“No,” thundered the big fellow. “I want the truth. If you lie, I’ll know it at once and something worse will follow. Orderly, knee-splints, toe-thumb.”
The direction was given in English, but it evidently was understood. The orderly picked up two pieces of pine board, about three inches wide, an inch thick and a little more than two feet long. These he proceeded to strap to Phil’s legs, behind, so that the prisoner was unable to bend his knees. Then he tied a string to each of the boy’s thumbs and with the persuasive power of a strong pull drew those digits down against the victim’s great toes and tied these two extremities together.
“There,” rattled the boche military ogre, as he viewed the plight of his prisoner with evident enjoyment; “when you decide you’re ready to tell the truth, send for me.”
“I don’t know what to tell you besides what I’ve already told,” replied Phil desperately, for the pain of his cramped position was already testing his endurance.
“Think, think hard!” advised “the count” as he left the room.
The orderly also departed, and the victim was left alone in his misery. The latter twisted and squirmed into every possible position to relieve his distress. The strain on his legs, back, thumbs and toes was so uniformly painful that he only increased his misery when he added tension at one point or portion to relieve the others.
Anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour after Topoff and the orderly left, another man in coarse tattered civilian garments appeared, bearing a tray of steaming food. As he set it down before the prisoner, he startled the latter with the following speech, scarcely above a whisper:
“This is not intended for you to eat, only to look at. If you try to eat it, you’ll find it full of the hottest of red pepper. By the way, I’m an English spy and want to give you a little advice. Think up some kind of plausible story and tell it to ‘the count’ in the place of the one he refuses to believe. Grit your teeth, stick through your torment, for help is on the way, I hope. As soon as you think up a story that you think will stand a test of reason, yell to the orderly and tell him that you’re ready to give in.”
“He can’t understand me, can he?” Phil returned.
“Oh, yes, he can understand a good deal, although he pretends to be contemptuously ignorant of the hated English tongue. Good-by, now, I must go, but I’ll keep my eyes open and will do everything that I can for you.”
The spy glided swiftly out of the room, leaving the tray of food setting on the floor.
Encouraged by the fact of the nearness of a friend and the assurance that there was reasonable hope of rescue, Phil cudgeled his brain hard for an inspiration to think up a plausible story to tell his tormentor. The strain of pain and necessity helped him wonderfully, and in a short time he was yelling at the top of his voice to the orderly. The latter strolled in in leisurely manner after the boy yelled two or three minutes.
“Tell ‘the count’ I’m ready to tell the truth,” Phil announced in pleading tones, which were genuine enough, in spite of the fiction plot behind them.
Without a word the orderly went out of the room and soon returned accompanied by “Count Topoff.”
“Ready to tell me the truth?” snapped the latter, addressing the suffering prisoner.
“Yes, yes,” cried Phil, designedly making no effort to conceal his distress.
Topoff gave the orderly directions in German, and the latter proceeded to cut the strings that bound the boy’s thumbs and great toes together.