Free The Winter Family by Clifford Jackman

mouth.
    “Now watch this,” Sevenkiller said. “It’s such a very little thing.”
    A stream of water splashed down over Winter’s nose and mouth. Almost immediately his whole body went into convulsions. It was a sensation totally unlike being able to breathe. He had never felt anything like it.
    “Oh my god,” Tom said.
    “Hidee-lee, hidee-lee,” Sevenkiller hummed.
    Winter strained against the ropes. It was like there was a pulsing, writhing thing inside his chest, like he was being turned inside out. He started to weep but he couldn’t breathe. His face turned brick red and his eyes popped out and everything else jerked and twitched. It went on and on.
    From the darkness, forgotten by everyone, Bill watched without much emotion. He had seen worse: men blown apart and screaming for their mothers in absurd, high-pitched voices. Men weeping as their limbs were sawn off by doctors. Men turning waxy and yellow as they bled out through their guts. That was all much worse than this. It would not go on long. The boy would break. Everyone did. It was the hardest lesson of war: that men were their bodies, not their spirits, and there was much that the body could not bear, no matter how strong the spirit.
    The flow of water stopped and the scarf was removed.
    “You want to talk now, young man?” Sevenkiller said.
    It was a narrow thing. It could have gone either way. Winter almost surrendered. Tears trickling down his cheeks, and he was scared. But he’d been prepared for this moment, this pain, this darkness. He was ready. All they were doing was baptizing him. Pushing him further and further into the man he was going to be.
    “All right,” Sevenkiller said.
    The rag pressed down over Winter’s mouth and the water came.
    Winter made a howling noise of agony and thrashed from side to side, trying to escape. But his eyes locked onto Sevenkiller’s, and they were not growing more desperate. As the strain, the stress, the pain grew, those eyes became harder and harder, like coals being transformed into diamonds by pressure.
    Sevenkiller, in spite of himself, felt uneasy.
    The water stopped. The rag came off. Winter inhaled in a scream and let out a choked sob.
    “Tell us!” Sevenkiller barked. “It’s never going to stop!”
    Here it comes, thought Bill.
    “Kill you,” Winter gasped.
    The scarf came down again.
    Winter bucked in the chair so desperately, with all of his muscles firing blindly, his limbs flailing in a reflexive attempt to escape, that his forearm snapped like a twig. The sound of it was clearly audible.
    “Aw, fuck,” Tom said in disgust.
    “Stop, stop!” Reggie sobbed. “Stop it! We’re going to Savannah! We’re going to Savannah!”
    Early lifted the scarf and stood up. Reluctantly, Sevenkiller set the bucket down.
    “Savannah?” Tom said.
    Reggie wept unreservedly.
    “Savannah?” Tom said again. “Not Macon? Or Augusta?”
    “No,” Reggie said, still sniffling. “We’re going between ’em. All the way to the sea.”
    “What kind of strategy is that?” Tom said. “You’re going to just bypass every military target in Georgia? Where are you going to get your supplies?”
    Reggie didn’t say anything.
    “Oh fuck,” Early said. “Captain.”
    But now Jackson saw it. The Union troops were not going to bring their supplies with them. They were going to live off the land. An army of sixty thousand men cutting a path across Georgia, all the way from Atlanta to the sea. Confiscating food and supplies, burning towns, twisting up the railroads. A ribbon of destruction cutting the state in two.
    “All our troops are down in Macon,” Early said, his voice panicked. “Sherman fooled us. There ain’t no one to stop him.”
    “All right,” Tom said. “Let’s go make a plan.”
    “Should we kill them?” Sevenkiller said.
    Tom gave Sevenkiller a strange look.
    “No, leave ’em.”
    “What about just this one?” Sevenkiller said, motioning to Winter and drawing his revolver.