There the whole truth must come to light. And the shameful flight must begin all over again!
Nor could he, by explaining the situation to his jailers here, hope to win their credence.
They had evidently been on a more or less prolonged scouting trip. They could not know the story of his degradation. Nor could they be expected to credit so improbable a tale. He could not expect them to believe that Lieutenant-Colonel James Brinton—of whom they might or might not have heard—of General Taylor’s personal staff, was the scarecrow prisoner they had seized as a deserter.
He tugged at his bunglingly tied wrist-bonds. But he could not loosen them. Almost he could draw one hand out from the leather strap. But he could not quite release it.
Supper over, a trooper, at the lieutenant’s command, brought a shallow little tin dish of water and a piece of hardtack to where Brinton lay and set it beside him.
The sight of the water set the prisoner well-nigh insane. Yet, by an effort that called for all his strength of mind, he refrained from drinking it.
Instead, he lay still, looking up at the big southern stars until sentries were posted for the first watch and the other troopers rolled into their blankets. Then, cautiously, he stretched forth his bound hands and laid his wrists in the shallow tin dish of water.
The touch of the cool liquid brought on another mad craving to drink. But Brinton, after a second battle of will, conquered, and forebore to waste the precious water in the mere quenching of thirst.
For ten minutes he let his wrists and their leathern thongs soak in the dish. Then he drew them out and exerted all his weak force to pulling his close-fastened wrists asunder.
The leather, as he had foreseen, had softened and stretched from immersion. A desperate tug that scraped off most of the skin of one wrist—and his right hand was free.