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.