Somewhere there was a set of church bells. Willie noticed them that morning as they chimed the hours. The wind must have changed directions, he realized, because he hadn't been able to hear them before. What seemed an eternity after eleven o'clock, men came for him. Willie had spent an anxious morning, his insides were in knots, and he felt sick.
"You can get your shirt off now," one of them told him, "or wait and it'll be ripped off."
Willie looked at them, wanting to say something, knowing it would do no good. He forced his hands to unbutton his shirt. With sharp, tense movements, he shed his jacket and the shirt. He was chilled already; this would not be good for him.
One of the four men held his clothing and two others chained his wrists together behind him. Thoughtfully, the first man draped the jacket over Willie's shoulders.
"Let's go," the constable said, leading the way.
Willie hung his head as he was marched out, ashamed to be the subject of this kind of attention. The tolling of the bells told him it must be noon now.
In the center of the square a large wooden platform a few feet above ground level had been erected. It was from this speeches and town gatherings were directed. There were stocks set into the platform at the "back." In the front were two tall poles set eight feet apart used to hang banners. Remnants of the last banner—the strings that had tied it were all that was left—fluttered in the chilly wind.
From the corners of his eyes, Willie looked around. There was a small crowd gathered in the square around the front of the podium. He saw nothing he would call a whipping post and hoped they wouldn't put him in the stocks for this.
The men who had walked on either side of him took him to one of the poles. They took his jacket and unfastened his wrists. Shivering, he suddenly felt this was too real. He looked for Barnabas and saw him tie a horse at the edge of the square and start toward the platform.
Willie watched the man clamp a wet, rusty manacle down around his bruised right wrist, attaching him to the post on his right. A length of chain went from the cuff to a ring set into the pole. He could hear someone, a town official reading out his sentence.
"Stop!" Barnabas commanded, standing on the ground in front of the podium. He glanced up at Willie to see him tensed and anxious. "You must stop this at once. This man is innocent." Barnabas disliked scenes, but he had to try.
"What? What is this? Who are you?" asked the official.
Before Barnabas could answer, Townsend and his friend stepped forward from one edge of the crowd. "This man is most certainly guilty of trespassing."
"Who are you?" the man asked Barnabas after glancing at Townsend.
"I am Barnabas Collins. This man is not responsible for what he did."
"I want him punished," Townsend said icily.
"Sir, I must ask you to step back." The town official looked at Barnabas who did not obey and tried to rush forward. "Stop him!"
Two men from the crowd grabbed Barnabas and held him back. "Look at him," Barnabas said. "Can't you see he's in no condition for this?"
Everyone looked at Willie who wanted nothing of the kind. His skin was pale from cold and months without much sun, and the scars made by rifle bullets were obvious and deep on his back, the results of surgery and less than compassionate care. His recent bruises were blue-black across his back and sides. He hardly thought about it. He felt he was freezing to death. "Jus' get on with it," he muttered. He looked down through half-closed eyes at Barnabas whose look of compassion and sorrow made him wince as much as being fastened to the pole on his left.
He faced the crowd, arms up and out stretched, centered between the posts like a shivering human banner. He kept his head down, trying to steel himself. He determined he would not cry out or scream. He would show Barnabas how the real Willie Loomis could take physical pain.
Still, he was scared and cold. He didn't look behind him to see what the whip looked like or the man holding it. It was a long, thin length of braided leather held by the man who had recommended he remove his shirt while still in the cell.
There was a silence except for the clinking of the chains as Willie wrapped his hands around them.
The director of this spectacle addressed Willie. "You will count the strokes until you are unable." He stood beside him.
Willie looked over his shoulder at him. "What?" He had not been expecting anyone to speak to him. He was expecting pain.
"Can you count?"
"Yes, of course, but I don' understand." His chest heaved and his teeth chattered.
"You must count off each stroke. 'One, two, three,' and so forth."
"No," he refused. Why should he cooperate and make it easier for them to hurt him?
"If I do it for you, I'll count to twenty," he threatened.
Willie saw the unfeeling look in his eyes. "A-all right. I-I'll do it."
"Very well." He backed away and stepped down from the platform. "Count."
Willie realized that as soon as he said "one", he would be struck. But since it was inevitable, he wanted it over with. Yet it was a moment before he could force the word out.
In a hoarse, shaking voice, he said, "One."
Barnabas saw Willie's head come up and his teeth come together in a grimace, then he looked away. A rush of air from Willie's mouth was the only sound from him. He breathed hard and fast.
He hadn't expected it to hurt that much. The pain was sharp and jagged, ripping his skin and nerves, but it lacked the dull, bone-deep bruising quality that blows from Barnabas' cane had. Yet it was a relatively long time before he could make himself say "two". The shock of the sudden intense pain seemed worse than anything he had been through. He was still hurting from the first lash.
He sucked in air through his teeth clamped together to keep him from crying out the curses that came to his mouth. His eyes were squeezed shut and his muscles taut, straining. He almost could not bring himself to say "three", but with the icy wind on his chest, he knew he had to get it over with.
Still standing, it was obvious Willie was capable of continuing to count. His pauses were drawing it out longer than necessary, but Willie couldn't help himself. By the time it was half over his knees had grown too weak to support him. The weight of his body was on his arms and shoulders, and they hurt more and more. He didn't know he was bleeding. He couldn't feel the thin trickles of blood running down his back. It just back burned while the rest of him froze. Tears leaked out from his tightly closed eyes, and his nose ran from breathing the cold air.
It was hard for Barnabas to listen to him, harder still to look at him. Willie's face and neck were red from straining and when he had the courage to call the next number, his back arched when it was struck, tensing his arms and chest. He had to admire Willie's attempt to bear the pain stoically.
There was a very long gap, minutes passed and Willie said nothing, head drooping. He could not remember what number they were on and was afraid to say one he had already given. His senses couldn't keep track of the consuming pain and cold and of the counting too. He heard someone call, "Eight," and had to grind his teeth to keep silent. The last two brought groans as he exhaled but nothing more audible.
After the last one, Barnabas was freed to help him. He leapt up onto the platform as the men unchained Willie. His knees then hit the planking, followed a second later by his elbows and forearms. He was little aware of the other man kneeling beside him. He was cold and his back hurt terribly.
Barnabas put Willie's shirt over his bloody back, seeing how badly he was shaking. "Can you help me get him on his horse?" he asked the men who had unchained him.
"Bring it here."
He left them to fetch the horse he had tied with his own at the edge of the square. Most of the people had dispersed as he led the animal over to where the two men prepared to pick up Willie and put him on the horse. He was concerned that Willie would not know how to ride.
Willie didn't protest as they each took an arm and leg and set him into the saddle. The jarring and pulling brought stifled sounds of pain from him. His hands fell into the horse's mane and his feet groped automatically for the stirrups. He stayed bent over, his head almost on the horse's neck. The creature turned its head to sniff of Willie's leg. He didn't notice and wound his hands around the pommel of the saddle when he couldn't find the reins. He cringed down further when his jacket was thrown over him by one of the men.
Barnabas led the horse to where his was tied. He mounted it and took him at a slow walk to the inn. Willie closed his eyes, shuddering with the aches and pain and chill. An occasional gust of wind blew up under his open shirt, and he shook continuously. He had to use one hand to keep his jacket from blowing away.
When they reached the inn, Barnabas quickly dismounted. He went to Willie who was slumped over with his eyes closed. "Willie, do you think you can stand?"
Willie looked at him, glassy-eyed like a dying man. "It's so c-cold," he said through chattering teeth. He found the strength to stand up enough to get one leg over. Barnabas had to catch him and guide his body down straight or he would've fallen backwards. He immediately landed on his knees in the mud, blowing air between clenched teeth because the man had rubbed across his back.
With help, he managed to stand, but it was awkward going—with Barnabas being unable to put an arm around his back for support. The warmth in the inn helped the bitter cold to retreat.
Barnabas led him down a corridor to a door at the end and took him inside. He steered the injured man to a rickety wooden chair in front of a small writing desk. Willie collapsed into the chair, leaning across the desk, his head between his arms, and not looking around at all.
"Willie," Barnabas said, closing the door. "I've had a hot bath prepared for you." He carefully lifted the jacket from his shoulders but didn't touch the shirt which was stuck to his back soaked in blood. "You're temperature must be very low and there's mud all over you. You need this. It'll make you feel better."
Willie rolled his head to the side so he could see what he was talking about. Other than the bed and a night stand there was no other furniture in the room. Across the room from the bed and in the wall a few feet from the door was a hearth with a comfortable fire burning within. In front of the hearth, an oval, wooden barrel type tub sat, full of soapy water. He assumed it was hot.
"Why don't you undress and get in? I'll see to the horses." He went out quietly.
Willie didn't want to move. Just the warmth itself felt so good, he didn't need more yet. His back throbbed hotly on its own. He didn't think he could stand to get it wet. But he was dirty and a long hot soak would help ease the congestion in his sinuses and the stiffness in his muscles.
He managed to kick his shoes off and was struggling to reach one wet sock without moving much, simply hanging an arm down off the desk, when Barnabas came back in.
"Willie, are you having trouble?" He was surprised he had not gotten into the tub yet. Perhaps he was weaker than he had thought.
He didn't answer; this type of situation was humiliating. With considerable effort, he jerked his socks off, letting them fall to the floor.
Barnabas didn't want to make him more uncomfortable so he found another excuse to leave. "I'm having some tea brewed for you, Willie. It has chamomile in it which will help you relax. I'll go check to see if it's ready."
Willie stood up, less shaky than before. Without the major shock from the pain and cold, a little of his energy came back. With only the shirt remaining stuck to his back, he climbed gingerly into the tub. His feet, still numb, did not feel the heat as quickly as his legs, but he soon sank down in all the way, except for his back. He leaned forward, kneeling in the tub.
Barnabas returned, carrying a towel and a tea set. He noticed that Willie had not gotten his back wet, though he had apparently dipped his head in completely to wash his hair.
He pulled the chair over beside the tub, put a cup on it, and poured. "Here's your tea."
"I don' like tea," Willie said. He was little by little sinking his back into the hot water, and he wanted to be alone.
"Please have some anyway." He left the pot on the chair. "I've gotten you a set of clothes for this time, Willie. They may not fit exactly right." He knew Willie would be annoyed that they were not clothes suitable for a man of any rank. He had gotten them before he knew how Willie felt about playing his servant. Not only that, a gentleman's suit was far more expensive and required fittings.
Willie didn't appear to be listening. He looked down at his abraded wrists, the rope burns nothing compared to what the manacles attached to the posts had done. He washed them carefully. Probably get tetanus, he thought.
"Willie, did you hear what I said?" Barnabas stood by the bed. He placed the towel within Willie's reach.
"Yeah, but I wanna be alone now." He didn't look up.
"Certainly." Barnabas decided not to tell him about the salve he had purchased at the apothecary to put on his back.
Warmth had its drawbacks, Willie discovered. Some time after he had soaked the shirt off and just lain back a little, his torn skin an inch or so from the side of the tub, he felt the ache all through him. It was like having the flu. He knew it had been there all along and now he was warm enough to feel it. He wanted to get into bed and curl up, but he waited till the water was lukewarm before he got out. He had drunk out of thirst several cups of the tea, and there was no more of it left now. He didn't know if it had helped relax him, but he was still thirsty.
He got out of the tub and picked up the towel, which was a thick piece of cotton cloth not quite like terry cloth, but it worked almost as well. He left his back wet and wrapped the cloth around his hips. He looked down at the chest at the foot of the bed and was about to open it to find the clothes Barnabas mentioned when he felt his strength run out. He sat on the chest, putting his head in his hands. His back felt cold now, and he felt himself shiver. A knock on the door startled him, and he looked up. "Come in," he said.
It was not Barnabas as he had expected. A young woman stood in the doorway, carrying buckets in each hand. She was fairly tall, but chunky, her buxom figure plump and rounded, and her dishwater-blond hair was tied up under a bonnet but strands hung loose on either side of her face.
Willie stood up, keeping his back to the wall. "I thought. . ."
"I've come to empty the tub if you've done with it."
"Yeah, sure." Now, he wished he had just crawled into the bed.
She set the buckets down and went to the window, hesitating before she opened it. She turned and looked at him. "I'd better come back after you're dressed."
"Okay," he said, nodding. He waited for her to leave and knelt down in front of the chest, aching and weary. He lifted the lid and stared down. He could not tell by looking which were for him. It seemed like so much trouble. He let it shut, got up, and climbed into the bed, leaving the towel on the floor with his clothes. He slid beneath the covers, knowing this was what he needed.
It was not long before the woman returned. Willie lay on his side, aching and sleepy, his back to the door.
"Well, I'm back if you're dressed," she said through the door.
"Come in," he said with effort.
She opened the door and stepped inside. "Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said.
"Do what?"
"You're in the master's bed. He might punish you for it."
"Fuck him," Willie breathed.
She sounded a little shocked. "But he'll return any time now."
"Let me worry about it, okay?" He pulled the cover over his head.
"What is that you keep saying?"
He didn't know what she was talking about and didn't feel like answering. He heard her open the window and begin dipping buckets of water, carrying them to the window and pouring them outside. He felt guilty for not helping for it was obviously hard work.
Barnabas came back when she was almost done, and she looked at him somewhat anxiously to see what he would do about Willie being in his bed.
"Where's Willie?" he asked her, then noticed the form on the bed beneath layers of covers.
She watched him go over to the side. "Willie?"
"Yes," he said.
"When Mrs. Wells is through here, I want to talk to you."
"Okay." Not now, he thought, his head splitting.
He turned to the girl. "I would like to have his clothes washed, please."
"Yes, sir," she said and went back to emptying the tub as he left. "You're very fortunate," she told Willie.
He didn't agree so he didn't answer. He just coughed a little.
"Are you feeling well?" Her tone was of concern.
"No, I'm not."
"Well, when I'm done with this, maybe I can get you something?" She emptied the last bucketful, shut the window, and put both buckets in the tub. She dragged it out of the room. In a few moments, she was back to gather up his clothes.
Willie wished she would stay gone now and Barnabas, too. Every noise jarred him from his doze so he felt the aches.
"Willie," Barnabas said, coming in and closing the door. "I have some ointment for your back. If you would rather someone else put it on you, I'll understand."
He pushed the cover off his head. "I don' need anything."
"Nonsense. Of course you do. You don't want scars, do you?"
"No," he moaned, facing the inevitable.
"Relax, Willie, I'm told this has numbing properties."
It wasn't even his back that was hurting now. He didn't move.
Barnabas picked up a small hand blown glass jar from the desk. A knock on the door took his attention, and he opened it. "Yes, what is it?"
"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I came to see if I could do anything for him." She nodded toward the bed. "He said he wasn't feelin' well."
Barnabas looked down at her thoughtfully and smiled. "I'm afraid he isn't quite well. He needs this applied to his back." He took her by the arm and guided her in, placing the jar in her hand.
"Barnabas!" Willie protested. He didn't want a stranger to take care of him—he did not want to be taken care of at all.
But Barnabas had gone out. Willie turned his head to look at the woman. She stood by the bed, unsure of herself.
"I don' need that. You can go." He frowned at the throbbing in his head.
"You don't look well." She put her hand out to touch his forehead, but he turned his head away. She persisted, feeling the heat. "You've quite a fever."
Willie gave up. "It's just a cold."
"Now what's this about your back?" She moved her hand to the covers, pulling them down.
Her gasp, if nothing else made him protest. "Stop it. Leave me alone."
"You must be the man they flogged this morning. You poor thing." She looked at his wrists as well. "I heard about it, but I wouldn't go watch. It's a beastly thing to do and that Giles Townsend is little more. I would like to see him take a few." She tried to push him onto his stomach. "Here, why don't you just—" he did it, too tired to care any more, "—that's better."
He hoped her hands were clean as she started rubbing salve into the wounds. She was gentle, but it still hurt until the pain was replaced by a slight numbness.
"This is good medicine," she said, hoping to distract him from the pain. He was tensed and his fingers dug into the pillow. "Has castor oil in it. That's good to prevent scars."
He could smell it, but he didn't think the cuts were deep enough to leave permanent scars.
"I'm Helen. My father owns the inn. I stay here because my husband is away at sea. He just left two days ago. We've been married three months, and I've only seen him twice. Truth is, I'm glad he's away so much. He's a lot older than I, and I don't even know him. My father arranged this so I wouldn't be an old maid. Guess I'm lucky he found someone for me as late as it is."
Willie didn't think she was anywhere near too old to find a man. He thought it a shame she had no choice in whom she married.
She finished his back and took one of his hands, applying the ointment to his wrists. "Your name is Willie?"
"Yeah." He was relaxed now. She had a good bedside manner.
"What about your last name?" She started on his other wrist.
"Loomis."
"Well, Mr. Loomis, your wounds are all attended. Now about your fever, I'll bring you some cool water to drink." She got up, pulling the cover back over him.
He turned on his side to face her. "Thanks, Helen." He wasn't embarrassed now; he trusted her.
"You're welcome." She smiled at him and went out, taking the tea service.
Willie closed his eyes. He was so tired. It was so nice to be warm, if only he felt better.
Helen returned with a full pitcher of water and a glass, which she put on the night stand. She poured him a glass and handed it to him. "You just drink that down, please."
He hoped the water was either rain or spring water if it hadn't been boiled. He certainly didn't need a case of dysentery. "Thank you," he said, drinking it all down.
She nodded. "Now if you need anything, Mr. Loomis—"
"Call me Willie." He put the glass on the stand and sank back under the covers.
"—Willie, I'll be around. I can check with you every so often."
He had to smile. "Such service. You don't get that in any of the hotels I've stayed at." He looked up at her, smiling his thanks before looking back down and letting his eyes close.
"I'll be nearby," she said and left.
He was almost asleep when Barnabas came back in. Willie glanced at him.
"Mrs. Wells tells me you don't feel well. Are you sick?" Barnabas pulled the chair over by the bed and sat in it.
"I've had better days."
"She said you have a fever."
"I gotta cold, that's all, and I'm tired."
"Do you think you'll be able to travel?"
"What?" He frowned at him. "You mean go with you and try to figure out why the hell we're here?"
"Yes. I feel that I haven't much time here."
"Why don't you just go and leave me here? I'm not even supposed to be here."
"Would you be all right?"
"Sure. Jus' let me stay here while you're gone." Willie was thinking of the warm comfortable bed more than the town in general.
"All right." He was relieved that Willie didn't mind being left behind. "I'll pay for the room for a few weeks, then return for you."
"Whatever. I don' care." He met Barnabas' eyes. "When're you leavin'?"
"Well, I'm told I can make it to the next town in a few hours." He noticed Willie's eyes had a dull intensity from his illness. "I would leave today, but I don't want to while you're still—"
"Don't stay on my account," Willie told him, looking away. He thought Barnabas would insist on having the bed, and Willie did not want to give it up.
"Will you be all right?"
"Yes, Barnabas, you left me in capable hands," he said sarcastically, making his head throb more.
"I'm sorry, Willie." He waited for Willie to look up, but he did not. "I'll get my clothes. And I'll leave you some money in yours."
"Thanks," he sighed, wishing he would hurry.
* * *