a large ruddy-faced man given to portliness in his advancing years, but he exuded none of Jonathan Carlin's aura of power and assurance. His habitually mournful expression was intensified by a watery discharge that continually streamed from his pale-blue eyes. Regardless, Jason was well aware that behind the rheumy eyes was as shrewd a brain as one could wish. Jason granted Burroughs his full attention.
"It always pleased Jonathan to be able to play God," Burroughs said with a sigh. "He liked to control people, bend them to his will. There were few who dared defy Jonathan, but his own sister Regina was one. Against her brother's express wishes, she began seeing a Spaniard by the name of Rafael. When Jonathan couldn't stop her, he had her lover apprehended. He presented Rafael with a choice—hanging or transportation. The Spaniard chose the latter, and was consigned to a slaver, with little chance for escape."
Burroughs noted Jason's raised eyebrow and replied without further prompting to the unspoken question. "The company dealt in slaves then, yes. It was how Jonathan made such huge profits in the beginning. But this was not an ordinary run. Rafael was taken to Algeria. More than a decade passed before he was heard of again."
At that juncture, Burroughs stopped his pacing and began clawing at his collar and gasping for breath. Observing the almost frantic gestures, Jason was again compelled to lend assistance by helping the man to the settee.
Once he was lying down, Burroughs waved a feeble hand in dismissal. "I am all right," he said faintly. "In addition to a weak heart, I also possess a weak stomach." He shut his eyes. "You see, I was the one who found them . . . in the caves . . . below Carlin House."
"You found them?" Jason urged gently when Burroughs remained silent.
"Jonathan and Mary . . . and Andrea. Their . . . remains."
Jason's gaze flew to the portrait again, his mind reeling. For an instant before logic once again ruled, he focused on the possibility that Andrea Carlin was dead. Yet she couldn't have died . . . not unless her spirit had somehow returned to the flesh and she had—
Jason forcibly repressed his wild imaginings. But his grip on Burroughs's wrist was stronger than necessary and his voice had a hoarse ring when he demanded what had become of the Carlin family.
"Rafael . . . and his gang tortured them. I can't describe . . . God, there was so much blood. Vicious animals. . . ."
"But not the daughter. The girl was spared," Jason said in an unrecognizable voice.
"I suppose you could say that. Andrea was . . . She had been . . ."
Jason's heart lurched. "Rafael raped her?" he demanded, momentarily forgetting the virginal stains upon Lila's sheets.
"No, just my . . . poor sister Mary. And it was not Rafael," Burroughs replied. "He wasn't capable of such an act. Eunuchs are not . . . That was why he took such pleasure in . . . castrating Jonathan. Only he didn't stop there . . . Rafael only watched while his men, his followers, had Mary and then . . . took a knife to her. By the time they turned to Andrea, they were almost blind with drink. They slashed her thighs and arms, before she managed to escape by way of the tunnel beneath the house. She collapsed there, but Jonathan and Mary . . ."
Burroughs's words were almost whispered as he told how his sister and brother-in-law had died, but as he continued to recite, his tone became less emotional, almost dispassionate. Still, Jason thought he had never seen such horror in a man's eyes as he saw in George Burroughs's. Jason felt the horror himself. He had been exposed to the bloody ravages of war for a number of years, and thought himself inured to gruesomeness, but his stomach churned as he listened.
By the end of the tale, Burroughs's breathing became more normal. He stared at the portrait, as if willing himself to remember the Carlins as they had been in life. "We had the story from the two men we caught. Rafael . . . got away."
Jason
"It always pleased Jonathan to be able to play God," Burroughs said with a sigh. "He liked to control people, bend them to his will. There were few who dared defy Jonathan, but his own sister Regina was one. Against her brother's express wishes, she began seeing a Spaniard by the name of Rafael. When Jonathan couldn't stop her, he had her lover apprehended. He presented Rafael with a choice—hanging or transportation. The Spaniard chose the latter, and was consigned to a slaver, with little chance for escape."
Burroughs noted Jason's raised eyebrow and replied without further prompting to the unspoken question. "The company dealt in slaves then, yes. It was how Jonathan made such huge profits in the beginning. But this was not an ordinary run. Rafael was taken to Algeria. More than a decade passed before he was heard of again."
At that juncture, Burroughs stopped his pacing and began clawing at his collar and gasping for breath. Observing the almost frantic gestures, Jason was again compelled to lend assistance by helping the man to the settee.
Once he was lying down, Burroughs waved a feeble hand in dismissal. "I am all right," he said faintly. "In addition to a weak heart, I also possess a weak stomach." He shut his eyes. "You see, I was the one who found them . . . in the caves . . . below Carlin House."
"You found them?" Jason urged gently when Burroughs remained silent.
"Jonathan and Mary . . . and Andrea. Their . . . remains."
Jason's gaze flew to the portrait again, his mind reeling. For an instant before logic once again ruled, he focused on the possibility that Andrea Carlin was dead. Yet she couldn't have died . . . not unless her spirit had somehow returned to the flesh and she had—
Jason forcibly repressed his wild imaginings. But his grip on Burroughs's wrist was stronger than necessary and his voice had a hoarse ring when he demanded what had become of the Carlin family.
"Rafael . . . and his gang tortured them. I can't describe . . . God, there was so much blood. Vicious animals. . . ."
"But not the daughter. The girl was spared," Jason said in an unrecognizable voice.
"I suppose you could say that. Andrea was . . . She had been . . ."
Jason's heart lurched. "Rafael raped her?" he demanded, momentarily forgetting the virginal stains upon Lila's sheets.
"No, just my . . . poor sister Mary. And it was not Rafael," Burroughs replied. "He wasn't capable of such an act. Eunuchs are not . . . That was why he took such pleasure in . . . castrating Jonathan. Only he didn't stop there . . . Rafael only watched while his men, his followers, had Mary and then . . . took a knife to her. By the time they turned to Andrea, they were almost blind with drink. They slashed her thighs and arms, before she managed to escape by way of the tunnel beneath the house. She collapsed there, but Jonathan and Mary . . ."
Burroughs's words were almost whispered as he told how his sister and brother-in-law had died, but as he continued to recite, his tone became less emotional, almost dispassionate. Still, Jason thought he had never seen such horror in a man's eyes as he saw in George Burroughs's. Jason felt the horror himself. He had been exposed to the bloody ravages of war for a number of years, and thought himself inured to gruesomeness, but his stomach churned as he listened.
By the end of the tale, Burroughs's breathing became more normal. He stared at the portrait, as if willing himself to remember the Carlins as they had been in life. "We had the story from the two men we caught. Rafael . . . got away."
Jason
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