Johnny O'Brien - Day of Deliverance

The tall man spoke. “If you make any noise you will die.”

Their hands were tied behind their backs and hoods placed over their heads. Fanshawe began to sob.

The man repeated his threat. “I said no noise.”

It was difficult to tell in which direction they were going, but after twenty minutes, the rocking of the boat stopped. Jack felt a jab in his ribs and then a heavy hand guided him, still blindfolded, from the boat onto some stone steps that rose up from the river. By peering down his nose, Jack could just make out the terrain and avoid stumbling.

“Where are you taking us?” Angus demanded.

Jack heard a dull thud and Angus groaned.

“I said no talking.”

They could not have been far from the city, yet, wherever they were, it was oddly quiet. After a few minutes, they entered a building. Despite the hood, Jack could tell that they were in a reasonably large place because there was stone paving beneath his feet, and the sound of their marching footsteps made a slight echo as they were ushered inside. Was this one of the large houses that they had seen from the south bank of the river? They stopped and Jack could hear the men talking among themselves. They were not speaking English and Jack strained to decipher the language. Then he recognised it — Spanish — and the rest of the jigsaw fell into place. Their captors must be the men they had evaded in Cambridge.

He heard a key turn in a lock and they were pushed forward again.

“Down,” the man said.

Jack stepped down a stone staircase that led beneath the house. It smelled damp and musty. Without daylight filtering through his hood, everything was completely black. The rope around his wrists was beginning to rub. They reached the bottom of the staircase and Jack felt himself being manhandled across a room and pushed up against a cold wall. A kind of metal cuff was placed around his ankle and he heard the clanging of a heavy chain. The hood was suddenly ripped from his head. At first he did not understand what he was looking at, but then, as the features of the room slowly came into focus, he felt an overwhelming sense of terror.

All three of them were manacled to a brick wall which formed one side of a large cellar. The only light came from candles flickering in the gloom. Directly in front of them was a rectangular wooden frame, slightly raised from the ground. It had rollers inserted into it and two metal bars at each end. Attached to the bars were looped rope fasteners. There was a large lever on the top bar and this, in turn, linked to a system of chains and pulleys within the structure. With growing horror, Jack realised what the strange machine was: a torture rack. The limbs of its victims were tied to the bars with the rope fasteners. Turning the handle and ratchet attached to the top roller would gradually increase the tension on the chains, which in turn strained the ropes, eventually dislocating the victims’ joints. The machine before them was designed to tear its victims limb from limb. The pain would be excruciating.

Fanshawe howled uncontrollably. Without hesitation, the swarthy man with the scar slapped him across his face with the back of his hand.

“Silence!” he said.

Fanshawe’s howls degenerated into intermittent sobbing.

“Enough.” The tall, well-dressed man stepped forward from the shadows.

He gestured to the rack. “You like our potro? Or if you wish we have the garrucha.” He pointed at a beam on the ceiling to which an elaborate pulley-system was attached. On nearby wooden tables there was an array of stone and metal blocks. The torture consisted of suspending a victim from the ceiling with weights tied to their ankles. As they were lifted and dropped, the victim’s arms and legs suffered violent pulls and were sometimes dislocated. Fanshawe could not control himself and wailed again. The thug raised his hand and this time it was enough to silence Fanshawe.

“… or maybe the tortura del agua?” Again the man gestured casually to a number of large flagons of water set out on the stone floor.

“Agua.” Despite his fear, Jack recognised the word. He tried to remember what it meant. Water. Waterboarding. He’s talking about waterboarding . He had heard the expression on the TV. It consisted of putting a cloth over the head of the victim, and pouring water over them so that they felt as though they were drowning. It was barbaric.

The tall man spoke good English. He was calm and polite, his manner contrasting with the horror of the instruments in front of them. It somehow made the threat worse.

“You may call me Senor Delgado.” He nodded towards the two thugs who glowered back at them. “My friends here are Hegel and Plato. Now, so we are all clear, I do not wish to use any of our special equipment . But my friends here, I am afraid, need little encouragement. You understand, of course. So you will help us?” He walked over to Fanshawe, who stood next to Jack, and smiled at him. Then, he reached down inside Fanshawe’s doublet. Fanshawe squealed. Delgado pulled out the sealed envelope that Fanshawe had placed there for safe-keeping.

“Finally, we have it.” He broke the seal and opened the letter, holding it close to one of the candles. There was an eerie silence as he read.

“As we thought.” He placed the letter back on the table.

“You will tell us all you know about this letter. How you got it and what else you know of our plans.”

“I don’t know anything. I have not even read it,” Fanshawe gibbered.

Without hesitation, the man clicked his fingers. Immediately, Plato and Hegel approached, unshackled Fanshawe and dragged him over to the rack. He kicked and screamed as they lowered him onto the evil device. They were much too strong for him and in a second they tied his legs to the lower bar and his arms to the upper bar. Plato put both his hands on the long lever and looked across at his boss. He grinned, eagerly awaiting the signal to continue.

“Wait!” Jack shouted. Delgado wheeled round. “We were given the letter in Cambridge…”

“Quiet!” Delgado spat in frustration. “Marlowe works for us — and he is safe now — he told us what happened. You were going to kill him unless he gave you details of the plot. You forced him to write the letter. We arrived before you could finish your work. You escaped us in Cambridge, but now we have you. You work for Walsingham and you know Walsingham’s other spies. We want their names.”

“That’s rubbish,” Angus shouted out furiously. “We were asked to deliver this letter for money. That’s all we know.”

Anger flashed across Delgado’s face. “You lie!” He clicked his fingers and Plato pulled the lever. There was a creaking of rope and wood as the rack strained. Fanshawe screamed.

“Your friend will die there, if I do not have the truth.”

“Marlowe’s tricked you!” Jack shouted in desperation.

“Before we continue, we search you for more papers.”

The man pointed to Hegel who loped over to Angus and pawed at his clothes. Angus writhed, straining against his chains. “Get off!”

Their situation was desperate. They had no information to give. Jack fought his panic and fear, struggling to think clearly, to come up with a way — any way — they could buy some time. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he had an idea. It was a long shot, but…

Jack hissed over at Angus, “Let him — let him search you!”

Angus looked back at Jack, angrily. “What the hell…?”

Jack said firmly, “Let him!”

Hegel reached into Angus’s doublet searching for anything that might be valuable or useful. He patted the breast pocket of Angus’s under-vest and felt a lump. He looked over at Delgado with a curious leer.