"But what happened to my father?" Hawksworth blinked the sweat from his eyes, wanting the story but wanting almost more to escape the overheated, timbered offices that loomed so alien.
"That's the horrible part o' the story. It happen'd the next mornin', poor luckless bastard. We're all march'd into this big stone-floor'd room where they keep the strappado."
"What's that?"
"Tis a kindly little invention o' the Portugals, lad. First they bind your hands behind your back and run the rope up over a hangin' pulley block. Then they hoist you up in the air and set to givin' it little tugs, makin' you hop like you're dancin' the French lavolta. When they tire o' the sport, or they're due to go say their rosary beads, they just give it a good strong heave and pop your arms out o' your shoulders. Jesuits claim 'twould make a Moor pray to the pope."
Hawksworth found himself watching Symmes's wild eyes as he recounted the story, and wondering how he could remember every detail of events a decade past.
"Then this young captain comes in, struttin' bastard, hardly a good twenty year on him. Later I made a point to learn his name—Vaijantes, Miguel Vaijantes."
"What did he do?"
"Had to see him, lad. Eyes black and hard as onyx. An' he sports this sword he's had made up with rubies in the handle. Ne'er saw the likes o' it, before or since, e'en in India. But he's a Portugal, tho', through an' through. No doubt on that one."
"But what did he do?"
"Why, he has the guards sling Hawksworth up in the strappado, lad, seein' he's the strongest one o' us. Figur'd he'd last longer, I suppose, make more sport."