Porthos watched as d'Artagnan was dragged into the cell and shackled to the wall. He shook his head with pity as water dripped from the young Gascon's wet hair; the Musketeer's waterlogged braies were dripping and forming a puddle, spreading slowly around where he sat.
"If I could have taken your place—though I would have had to go through that watery hell twice—I would have done it to spare you of that torment." Porthos whispered softly to his unconscious friend.
Porthos leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, needing to rest his sore and exhausted body while waiting for his young friend to awaken. I am sorry you have to suffer so much because of that letter. I'm glad I didn't tell you where it's hidden—the secret is too heavy a burden. I was right to spare you of it.
The large Musketeer was later awakened when d'Artagnan began to moan. "I don't know if I'll ever enjoy a cup of water again."
"The worst was bein' nearly upside down so the water went up my nose and into my ears." Porthos tried shaking his head to release the water still sloshing in his ears.
"Upside down?" d'Artagnan's brow furrowed in confusion. "I wasn't upside down; I was lying flat on my back as they poured entire pitchers of water down my throat. They put some kind of a metal prong into my mouth, while someone else plugged my nose so I couldn't breathe. I had no choice but to swallow all that water they poured into me."
"They did dif'rent water tortures on us then," Porthos grumbled. "That's not what happened to me."
"Porthos, I don't know how much more of this I can take," the Gascon whispered softly. "Do you think Captain Tréville has sent a search party for us?"
"I know the cap'n's got a search party out lookin' for us—you can count on it!" Porthos assured. "But I wouldn't put it past Athos leadin' the way with his own one-man search and rescue team."
"Athos shouldn't be going anywhere," d'Artagnan groaned as he shook his head. "He's still too sick to travel."
"If I know Athos, no way is he stayin' in his room if he knows we're missin'," Porthos paused, "no matter how sick he is. With Aramis away, I'll bet Athos snuck out when the cap'n couldn't stop 'im."
"If only we could get something out that window, some sort of a signal so he—they—could find us in here. How is anyone going to find us down here? It's going to take a blooming miracle," d'Artagnan frowned.
"I don't know, brother," Porthos shook his head. "But if Athos and the cap'n are out there lookin' for us, I know they'll find a way to locate us—you can count on it."
The Musketeers jumped and groaned with dread at the sound of the cell door unlocking and creaking open.
Henri and Gaston stepped into the cell with ropes in their hands. "Time for more questioning, Musketeers; how much questioning is up to you boys. Tell us where the letter is," Henri shrugged, "and you can be home by nightfall."
"You wouldn't let us go, even if we did know where the letter is," d'Artagnan spat angrily. "You're not men of honor; you're nothing but two-bit ruffians!"
Gaston reached out and slapped d'Artagnan across the face with the back of his hand, cutting his lip against his teeth again. The Gascon wiped the blood away with his fist, glaring at Gaston with pure hatred in his dark eyes.
"You'll get nothin' from us, you worthless pieces of filth!" Porthos growled. "You're nothin' but hired goons," he spat. "Who hired ya, Rochefort?"
Henri punched Porthos in the face, snapping his head back into the stone with a sickening thud. Blood streamed from the Musketeer's nose, dripping onto the dirty floor as his head hung limply to the side.
"Well, it looks like I'll have to start with you." Henri rubbed his hands over the rope he held as he stepped in d'Artagnan's direction.
The Gascon's heart fell in his chest as he realized more torture was in store for him. How much more of this torture can I possibly endure? Is the king's letter really worth this? D'Artagnan paused to reminded himself of Captain Tréville's order to not allow the letter to fall into the wrong hands.
What the hell are you saying, d'Artagnan? You are a King's Musketeer! You will go to your grave before telling those pieces of garbage anything. Are you a man of courage, or are you going to let them break you?
"Gaston, unshackle him and bind his hands in front," he handed the man the rope. "I want to have fun with him for a while. But if you try anything stupid, I'll slice his throat," he pointed a dagger at Porthos' neck.
D'Artagnan said nothing as he squared his shoulders and set his jaw, determined to face whatever lay in store with absolute courage. If I don't come through this ordeal alive, so be it. I'm not going give these goons the satisfaction of breaking me.
"I am a King's Musketeer. . ."
Gaston unshackled one manacle, allowing d'Artagnan's arm to drop numbly to the floor.
"I am a soldier of France. . ."
The second arm was freed, also dropping to the floor, numb from lack of circulation.
"I am Charles d'Artagnan from Lupiac of Gascony. . ."
The Musketeer was pulled roughly to his feet with both hands now tied in front of him.
"I'll make you proud of me, Papa." D'Artagnan looked upward toward the window, smiling at the sliver of sunshine streaming in. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling onto his cheeks. "God give me strength. . ."
They led the Gascon away, slamming the cell door behind them.
D'Artagnan was led to a large, open room with high ceilings. He gasped as he noticed two ends of a long rope hanging from a pulley attached to the ceiling. He swallowed the lump in his throat, afraid of what purpose the long rope held for him.
"Ah, I see that you've noticed the rope," Henri sneered. "We're going to have fun with this one. I am surprised you have lasted this long, Musketeer. You have courage, I will give you credit there, but that may change before we're done."
"I don't think so," d'Artagnan countered.
"Tie him to the rope!"
Gaston and Jacques pushed d'Artagnan toward the rope. Henri took out his dagger and cut away the small rope binding the Musketeer's hands so he could be tied to the longer rope.
The Musketeer quickly turned and knocked the dagger from Henri's hands with a swift blow to the man's wrist; the blow sent the dagger scattering across the floor.
Gaston grabbed the Musketeer from behind to secure his arms, but d'Artagnan swung around with such powerful momentum it sent the man flying off. "Get off me!" the Gascon yelled.
Jacques then kicked at d'Artagnan's knee, finally sending the Musketeer to the floor clutching at his knee in pain.
"Bind his hands," Henri snapped.
Jacques and Gaston tied the Musketeer's hands to the long rope then walked to the other end and grasped it in their hands, ready to pull.
"Where is the letter?" Henri snarled.
"I don't know what you are talking about," d'Artagnan answered with steadfast determination.
"Lift him up," Henri motioned, raising his hands upward.
Jacques and Gaston heaved together on the rope, pulling d'Artagnan up by his tied wrists until his feet no longer touched the ground.
The Gascon yelled out from the sudden pain in his wrists and his shoulders as they bore the weight of his suspended body.
"Where is the letter?"
"I don't know!"
"Very well," Henri said dryly. "Jean-Pierre, you may commence."
D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder to see what Jean-Pierre was going to do when he heard the familiar whoosh of the whip and the crack! as it landed on his bare back.
The Musketeer screamed and lurched forward in reaction to the pain, causing him to begin spinning on the rope.
The next crack of the whip landed across his chest, as it happened to land there while spinning.
D'Artagnan's thrashing and kicking caused him to sway and spin so Jacques could not land his whip properly; Henri stepped forward to still the movement of the hanging Musketeer.
Once more the whip came crashing down with stinging vengeance, making the Gascon arch his back as the leather met its target. D'Artagnan caused himself to spin wildly as he tossed about on the ropes again, his scream echoing off the walls of the room.
Henri stopped the Musketeer from spinning. "Where is the letter?"
"Go to hell," d'Artagnan spat.
Henri took his dagger and sliced a four inch superficial cut along the Musketeer's stomach, not deep, but just enough to bring droplets of blood to the surface. D'Artagnan screamed once more at the new stinging pain.
Sweat rolled down the young Gascon's skin, burning the lacerations caused by the whip on his chest and back. Drops of sweat dripped from d'Artagnan's face and streamed down his neck.
Henri stepped away as Jean-Pierre brought the whip down again on d'Artagnan upper back and across his wounded shoulder.
"Stop. . . please," d'Artagnan cried out.
"Tell me where I can find the letter and I will," Henri answered, but the Musketeer said nothing. "Fine, have it your way."
The leader took his dagger and sliced another long cut across d'Artagnan's wounded shoulder; he watched as blood droplets popped up and dripped slowly downward along the length of the cut.
D'Artagnan swung his body to bump his hip into Henri, knocking the man off-balance; he stumbled, catching himself on one hand to stop his fall.
Jean-Pierre sent another lash of the whip down on the Gascon's skin. The wicked man laughed as the stinging tail of the whip wrapped around d'Artagnan's tender side.
The young Musketeer screamed in agony, his chest heaving with pain-filled breaths. His skin glistened wet with perspiration mixed with drops of blood rolling down his sticky body.
D'Artagnan allowed his mind to drift away with thoughts of Constance and her sweet kisses. He saw her beautiful brown eyes and smiled at the fond memories of her. He saw his father, busy plowing the fields before planting season; he called out to him and his father raised his head in response. . .
Crack!
The sudden flash of white-hot pain brought him back to reality with a scream escaping his mouth, registering strangely distant in his own ears.
D'Artagnan let his head fall backward as he cried tears of anguish and resignation. He could feel himself growing nauseated from the relentless torment and brought his head forward as vomit spilled from his mouth and splashed on the floor.
The Gascon tried to lift his head again but had no strength left. His vision began to blur then fade to grey; he let his eyes slide closed.
"No!" Henri screamed out. "You are not going to pass out on me, Musketeer. Stop the whipping, Jean-Pierre," he held up his hand to the tormentor.
"Why don't we startle him awake with the brine, shall we?"
Jean-Pierre laughed as he lifted the bucket of brine and tossed the liquid over the front of d'Artagnan, causing the man to jolt as the salty mixture burned his many cuts, lashes and gashes.
The tormentor circled around the Musketeer and repeated the splashing of brine on his back; the action elicited a gasp of pain from the hanging man who writhed with jerky movements.
Suddenly, the movement ceased as d'Artagnan slipped into blessed unconsciousness as his head tipped forward limply to his chest.
"Dammit!" Henri cursed. "Cut him down and shackle him to the wall in his cell. Let's get the large one in here and have our turn at breaking him into submission."
The unconscious d'Artagnan was dragged back to his cell and chained to the wall; his limp, wet body slumped against the cool stone.
Porthos watched his young friend with horror as he observed the fresh bleeding cuts and lashes. "How much more can your battered body endure before it simply shuts down?" The large Musketeer asked his unconscious friend.
Is this damn letter really worth all of this? Is it worth d'Artagnan's life? Is it worth mine? Porthos gave a low, throaty growl.
"It's your turn now," Henri said as he entered the cell. "Let's see how much I'll enjoy watching you squirm like your friend here did. I'll have to hand it to the young man… he is tough; he's a strong one, that Gascon."
"D'Artagnan is strong; he always has been." Porthos beamed with pride, but then his face fell as he gazed at the desperate condition of the fine, young soldier. This isn't fair, dammit. D'Artagnan doesn't deserve this.
Porthos' eyes filled with tears. "One day he'll be the greatest of us all."
"That is only if he lives to see another day," Henri chirped.
Porthos was hauled to his feet and led to the large room, without another word spoken. The Musketeer's hands were tied to the long rope connected to the pulley, surprisingly without any resistance from the large man.
The large Musketeer looked around the room in horror as he saw the pools of vomit, blood, and standing water. He looked up at the pulley and rope hanging from the ceiling and groaned; his breath hitched in his throat as dread crept up from his belly.
It took three men pulling on the rope to lift Porthos' large frame off the ground. His breath hissed through his teeth, wincing at the horrible pain now shooting through his stressed shoulders and throbbing wrists at being suspended in the air.
The sudden stinging crack of the whip on his back jolted the Musketeer forward as his scream echoed off the walls of the room.
Porthos twisted on the rope, trying to free his hands, but it was too tight. The weight of his body hanging from his wrists cut off the circulation in his hands and dug into his skin, causing his fingers to go numb.
The large Musketeer howled in pain as the crack of leather bit into the tender flesh of his stomach. Soon his skin dripped wet with sweat running in rivulets, joining the streams of blood now drizzling down.
He twisted his body, getting the momentum of the rope to turn him in circles; only to have the angry leather thrust him into the opposite direction.
The dizzying circles did not stop the thrashing of the whip as it landed wherever the long leather fingers fell onto Porthos' back, shoulders, stomach, chest and sides.
"Is your king worth this, Musketeer?" Henri snarled. "There is no shame in saving yourself. It is, after all, our natural and basic instinct to survive."
"Go to hell, louse," Porthos spat through clenched teeth. He blinked back the sweat stinging in his eyes; his chest heaved in and out from exertion and pain.
Henri dropped the whip then brought out his dagger.
Porthos' eyes widened in fear, thinking he was about to be eviscerated like an animal. The large man shuddered as he pictured his fellow Musketeers finding his body hanging by his wrists with his innards spilled out onto the floor, a pool of blood beneath him.
Henri cut a six inch shallow graze across his stomach, bringing the accustomed droplets of blood to the surface.
Porthos' breath hitched, though no other sound escaped the disciplined soldier.
The ruthless leader was disappointed at the lack of response and took the dagger across the length of Porthos' lower back, slightly deeper this time.
The Musketeer could feel the warm flow of blood trickling down his skin, soaking into his braies.
Shaking his head, Henri cut a slice of flesh open down the length of his left side, just enough to bring droplets of red.
The stinging, burning agony coursing through Porthos' body began to take a heavy toll on the Musketeer's will to hang on. He no longer cared if he stayed conscious but rather wished for the blessed relief of darkness.
Worse yet, Porthos no longer cared if Henri just ended this torment right now by ending his life.
At least he would not be hurting anymore.
The tormentor was growing more agitated at Porthos' stubborn nature. Henri was tiring of the Musketeer being like a rock of loyalty and devotion; he decided then to change tactics.
Rather than cutting a shallow laceration across the skin, Henri took his dagger and thrust it into Porthos' lower chest, just under the ribcage on his left side. The tormentor then stood to watch the Musketeer's reaction, hoping the man would plead for his life. Better yet, he hoped the wounded man would openly confess to the location of the letter.
The large Musketeer gasped and bit down on his lip to stifle the cries of pain, keeping mum to any further sounds. Blood slowly seeped from the penetrating wound, but Porthos no longer cared what happened to him. Perhaps this was the fatal blow he had been wishing for.
The dagger stuck out of Porthos' body several inches at an angle after glancing off a rib. Henri pulled it out as he laughed menacingly, causing more blood to flow as the blade was freed from the wound.
Henri fetched the bucket of brine and tossed the liquid over the front of the large Musketeer; he followed with the remainder of the brine, splashing it across his back.
Porthos twitched and jerked with burning agony from the sodium mixture, causing him to involuntarily cry out at the pain. The brine seemed to cause every open cut, gash and laceration to burn as though he had been lit on fire.
Unable to handle any further senseless and sadistic torture, Porthos lost his will to stay conscious and gave in to the beckoning darkness. He felt nothing as the three men, holding the rope suspending the large Musketeer's weight, suddenly let go; his limp body fell to the floor, in a bloody heap.
A/N:
The goons thought they were adding to the torture by pouring a brine solution (salt water) on the boys's lacerated backs, when in fact, they were doing them a favor by cleansing the wounds and killing bacteria—albeit in a very painful, burning manner. Here are some benefits of salt used in history:
Salt is mentioned as an essential ingredient in medical science in some of the oldest medical scripts. The ancient Egyptians recommended salt for the treatment of infected chest wounds as the belief that salt would dry out and disinfect the wound.
Ebers (1600 B.C.) describes many salt recipes especially for making laxatives and anti-infection medicines. Salt-based remedies were also prescribed for callous skin, epidemic diseases, to check bleeding, as an eye ointment, and to accelerate childbirth.
Hippocrates also mentions inhalation of steam from salt-water. We know today that the anti-inflammatory effects of inhaled salt provide relief from respiratory symptoms So, 2000 years ago, Greek medicine had already discovered topical use of salt for skin lesions, drinking salty or mineralized waters for digestive troubles and inhaling salt-steam for respiratory diseases.
Pharmacies of the 16th century used to relate the various uses of salt to its external aspect (rock salt, sea salt, refined salt and roasted salt). Respect for salt was as deep as prices were high. Until the 18th century, the preferred and most common pharmacy salt was rock salt which, in Germany, came chiefly from the Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania, the Tyrol, and Poland.
The pharmacists of the 19th century recommended internal use of salt against digestive upsets, goitre, glandular diseases, intestinal worms, dysentery, dropsy, epilepsy, and syphilis.